


Black Milk

by kallistob



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst and Porn, Bargaining, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deception, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Feminization, Fingerfucking, Forced Feminization, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kissing, M/M, Makeup, Manhandling, Manipulation, Masturbation, Mental Coercion, Mind Games, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Panic Attacks, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Prisoner Graves, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shaving, Sleepy Sex, Smut, Starvation, Touch-Starved, except it's a spell, graves swears a lot, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-01-29 08:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12627231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/kallistob
Summary: He will do what it takes to survive.-Two months in his captivity, Graves makes a deal with Grindelwald. He can have anything he desires - food, clothes, a bed - save for freedom. But it all comes with a price.





	1. The Deal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Funkspiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/gifts), [MercurialTenacity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialTenacity/gifts).



> i remembered i had this in the works and i figured i might as well post the beginning - Funkz has waited long enough :')) i hope you enjoy it, my friend. i'll endeavor to write more asap to actually get to the shameless porn i wanted to write in this verse. yum.

Graves didn’t want this. He did not want this. He’d never imagined that this would be something anyone could do to him.

Grindelwald had him. His fingernails dug into the skin of his jaw as he examined Percival, turning his head left and right as if he was a prized horse the wizard wanted to buy. His hands were bound together, cold metal looped around his wrists and preventing his magic from rising. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, legs outstretched in front of him while Grindelwald stood in the space between them.

“Are you quite done?” He asked, unable to take more of this probing and staring. He felt humiliated enough - humiliated by what he’d agreed to - and Grindelwald’s gestures made it worse. If this was the price he had to pay to live another day and see his rescue, then he would take it. But it didn't mean he had to like it.

Being so close to Grindelwald - the man who'd stolen his face and memories, the man who wore Graves’ face like a _coat_ while no one noticed, the man who tortured him with a putout, almost bored expression when he refused to cooperate - being so close to that man made his stomach lurch, the foul taste of bile heavy on his tongue. Graves fought it. He didn't want to give Grindelwald the satisfaction of seeing him like this, not when he already felt so vulnerable.

Grindelwald frowned, but released him. Graves rubbed his jaw with the back of his hands, cursing Grindelwald for gripping him so tightly. Not that he expected him to be gentle, but still - his body ached enough all over not to add more to his pain.

Graves hated himself. Hated himself for becoming so weak, so delicate, so mellow. Yet agreeing to what Grindelwald wanted was the only thing he had to temporarily get out of his prison. The dark wizard probably got off on how much he could humiliate Graves before the latter snapped.

Grindelwald turned around and Graves glared at his back, wishing that he could maim with a look. If he had his way then Grindelwald would be a pile of ashes at his feet right now, and Graves would be overjoyed to pick his remains up and flush them down the toilets.

“You’re being ridiculous, Percival,” Grindelwald said, amusement in his voice - obviously reading his thoughts. “Relax, will you? It’s just lipstick.”

“Just lipstick?” Percival repeated incredulously. “Lipstick, in exchange for a meal so I don’t die in that hole you tossed me in!”

“Yes,” Grindelwald said calmly. “And there will be further rewards if you behave well. Now hold still.”

Graves was seething, but he did as he was told. He watched as Grindelwald twirled his wand in the air and made something appear in the palm of his hand. Small and round and gleaming silver. A lipstick.

He couldn’t even fathom how Grindelwald knew a spell to materialize lipstick out of thin air.

He stared as Grindelwald uncapped it before twisting the base of the lipstick, extending it in a practiced move. It was pink, almost glittering, and Graves felt himself pale. Grindelwald approached him again, holding the uncovered lipstick in front of Graves’ face, and nodded. “Yes, that color is the right one. Stay still, darling - you’re going to be perfect.”

Graves swallowed, his throat clicking. Grindelwald's words stirred something in his gut he wasn’t ready to examine. He did not say anything about the pet name.

He held still as Grindelwald tipped his chin up with two fingers. He placed his hand over Graves’ cheek, holding him steady, and with the other he started applying the lipstick, drawing it over Graves’ lower lip in one even stroke. It felt strange. Grindelwald told him to pursue his lips and he obeyed, feeling foolish. Grindelwald then used his fingers to carefully wipe the excess of lipstick, before making sure it was spread evenly over Graves’ lips, down to the corners of his mouth.

He repeated the gesture on his upper lip, and pulled back to look at him critically. Graves felt himself flush under his gaze, suddenly self conscious in a way he’d never been before. He knew he must look ridiculous - a forty year old man wearing pink, like a baby doll.

“You’re almost perfect,” Grindelwald praised quietly. “But…hmm.”

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it in front of Graves’ mouth. “Open up.”

Graves did. Grindelwald pressed the handkerchief inside, the material heavy on his tongue, then told Graves to close his mouth before opening it again. He withdrew the wet handkerchief, smudged with pink where Graves’ mouth had touched it, and hummed in satisfaction. “There you go. All clean and pretty.”

A few final touches and Grindelwald finally seemed done with him. Graves let out a shaky breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and his stomach growled loudly. Grindelwald smiled. “Eager for your reward, are you, doll?”

“I haven’t eaten in three days,” Graves retorted, licking his lips - eyes widening when he tasted the lipstick on his tongue. It was like cotton candy, sweet and sugary.

“I know, darling. But don’t you want to see how pretty you look first?”

Graves’ eyes darkened. No, he didn’t fucking want to see how fucking _pretty_ he was because he wanted to _eat_ , god damn it all. Grindelwald’s laugh told him the other man was reading his thoughts again, plain as day, which only made Graves hate him even more. But he slowly nodded, and Grindelwald waved his wand again, making a small mirror Graves owned fly from the cupboard under the sink to his own hands.

Graves stared at his reflection. His lips were now a light, shining pink, but it didn’t look ridiculous - in fact, it was almost appealing. It drew attention to them, making them look more plush and inviting, ripe for a kiss. He made a face.

His appearance was in total disarray, but the lipstick was pretty.

“If I want a bath, will you ask me to wear heels?” He mocked, giving the mirror back to Grindelwald.

“Would you want to wear heels?”

Percival made a disbelieving sound, turning his head away. “Of course not! What kind of man would want this?”

Grindelwald hummed. “You will, in time. We’ll sort you.”

“ _I don’t fucking need_ \--”

“Dinner.”

Graves clasped his mouth shut.

By Merlin, how he _hated_ that man. But he needed to survive. He swallowed and closed his eyes, trying to reign in the burning anger coursing through him. He’d been reduced to this - begging for scraps of food inside his own flat.

“Good girl,” Grindelwald murmured, snapping his fingers so the chain holding Graves’ handcuffs together broke. As tempting as it was, Graves didn’t try to attack. He knew it was hopeless to think he stood a chance, and Grindelwald knew it too. “Now. What do you want to eat?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You will always have a choice. You just need to make the right one. Now, you behaved well. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

Graves took time to think, past the ache in his gut. He suddenly felt dizzy with the endless possibilities offered to him. He pictured roasted meat, fruits, vegetables, even _chocolate_ \- anything, anything at all that was different from the piece of bread and the stale water Grindelwald had been giving him so far. His hands were trembling. He whimpered when a particularly bad stomach cramp made him double over, and immediately Grindelwald was at his side, petting his hair and soothing him as if he wasn’t the reason why Graves felt so fucking bad. “There, there. You poor darling, you need to eat.”

Percival’s eyes stung with unshed tears. He did not want to lean into Grindelwald’s touches, but he found himself doing it all the same. He was pathetic. Pathetic and starving. He took a deep, steadying breath and rose up, away from Grindelwald. His legs barely supported him, but he could still stand.

“Soup,” he finally croaked out. “Soup, bread, and a fresh carafe of water.”

Grindelwald mockingly bowed his head. “It will be done exactly as you wish, doll. Do you need help getting to the living-room?”

Graves shook his head, defiant even as he swayed. “I’m fine.”

Grindelwald smiled. “Join me at dinner, then. Don’t do anything reckless, Percival.”

Then he left, whistling and heading towards the kitchen, and only when Percival was sure he would not come back did he allow his knees to give out under him. He grunted as his head made contact with the floor - he’d managed to control his fall somewhat, but still he ended up on his back, upturned like a beetle and sprawled on the white tiles to catch his breath.

God, but he hurt. He hurt so bad. The strokes of Grindelwald’s magic had yet to fade from his skin, painting his body a beautiful canvas of reds and purples and greens. Cuts and bruises, marks of his defiance. His ribs showed when he sucked in a breath, his hair felt dirty and matted, his breath was foul. This wasn’t the first time he’d been held and tortured, but it was the first time it went on for so long. Percival knew he wasn’t the closest to his colleagues, and he’d had a fallout with Seraphina the day before Grindelwald took him, but _still_.

They were Aurors. It was their job to notice the unnoticeable. What did it say, about him, that a dark wizard could steal his identity so easily? He’d failed them, all of them.

But it had been weeks, and still Grindelwald came home everyday and ate in Graves’ kitchen and wore his clothes and slept in his bed, and every morning he got up and went to work and signed his papers and took _his_ Aurors on missions and partook in meetings, and _no one noticed_.

“Sweetheart?” Grindelwald’s voice came from the living-room, sounding faintly annoyed. It pulled Graves out of his thoughts, and he straightened as quickly as he could, before using the sink as leverage to help himself up. “Dinner’s ready.”

How long had he been lying there? How long had Grindelwald been waiting for him? His hands were shaking. Graves balled them into fists and stepped out of the bathroom.

The walk to the living-room was short, but Graves could have moaned at how good it was to feel plush, soft carpets beneath his bare feet, to hear the bustle of the city outside, to see for himself what Grindelwald had done to his flat.

Nothing, as it turned out. His eyes searched the room for anything seeming out of place, anything that could indicate that Graves himself had not so much as stepped foot in it in the space of two months. But Grindelwald, it seemed, had taken great precautions not to disturb any of Graves’ quarters. It all was painfully familiar, down to the way the cushions were arranged on the couch.

Grindelwald was waiting for him, lazily leaning against the back of the sofa. “Finally. I feared you were going to mope in that bathroom until your hair turned white.”

Percival didn’t reply. He let Grindelwald take in the sight of him - half naked, bruised and dirty - and shivered at the glimmer of satisfaction he saw in the other man’s eyes.

“Captivity looks good on you, Percival Graves,” Grindelwald purred. “Come. Let us eat.”  

-

Grindelwald was a man of his words.

Everything was exactly as Percival had ordered it. The table was set in the kitchen with Graves’ finest cutlery - perhaps to mock him even further - and his plate was filled with a steaming, golden broth, sprinkled with parsley. He took a seat and Grindelwald handed him a large, warm piece of bread. It smelt so _good_.

“Nothing in there is poisoned,” Grindelwald assured him softly when Graves eyed his soup warily. “I have no interest in killing you, Mr. Graves.”

“I guess not,” Graves said, picking up his spoon. The first mouthful he swallowed felt like salvation on his tongue, warming him from the inside and filling him. He groaned at the taste, completely ignoring Grindelwald in front of him.

“Percival,” Grindelwald chided him with a smirk. “Manners.”

 _Fuck_ manners.

Graves made sure to slurp his soup as loudly as possible, which only earned him a sigh from his captor. A part of him hoped that maybe, just maybe, if he made enough of a mess, Grindelwald would find him disgusting and allow him a shower without Graves having to agree to anything in return.

His plate was empty sooner than he would have liked, and he leaned against the back of his chair with a sigh, hands resting over his stomach. He felt much, much better. Like he could actually hold a conversation with Grindelwald, instead of just drifting through it.

He grabbed the piece of bread on the table and started eating it bit by bit, chewing forcefully as he stared at Grindelwald who finished his dinner. The man set his cutlery down when he was done, pressing a delicate napkin embroidered with Graves’ initials to his lips, before sending both of their plates towards the sink with a wave of his hand.

Grindelwald steepled his fingers under his chin, and Percival crossed his arms.

“Stand up and turn around,” Grindelwald ordered out of the blue. “Now,” he added when Graves looked at him incredulously and opened his mouth to protest. “If you do so, I’ll let you take a blanket with you in the cellar.”

Graves froze. A blanket.

His cellar was a cold, damp place in which he stayed, alone, nursing his wounds while Grindelwald strolled in the city living his life. As much as the war had gotten him acquainted with survival in shitty conditions, in all the years since he came back he’d gotten quite used to his little comfort. Being a Graves and holding a position such as Director of Magical Security meant he could indulge in a few guilty pleasures. Tailored clothes, collector’s books and the finest aged whiskey he could buy were such indulgences.

When Grindelwald came, Graves had not been defeated in years, and such pride was his downfall. To find himself imprisoned in his own cellar, bruised and starved, his clothes turning into rags as weeks went by, was a lesson. To realize that no one noticed Grindelwald’s little masquerade was a noose, wrapped tight around his throat - choking him until he was but a hollow, silent husk of his former self.

He had no cot in the cellar. Graves did not sleep : he fainted, out of sheer exhaustion, lying down on the floor, curled up on himself like a child in a desperate attempt to feel warm. Grindelwald visited him every fortnight to gain information, and when Graves refused to cooperate he made his pain worse.

Having Grindelwald invite him to dinner had been a beacon of light, a piece of heaven in hell’s despair. It did not matter if he had to slap some colors over his bitten, raw lips. Lipstick was better than starving to death inside his house as a result of his own failures.

And now Grindelwald - having held his promise to let Graves eat - offered him a blanket.

Such a simple gesture shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

Slowly, Graves stood up and stepped away from the table, turning around to show Grindelwald his back. His dirtied shirt hung low on his frame, worn thin, ripped in most places. It offered no protection against the cold, no protection against the blows Grindelwald rained down on him, no protection against Grindelwald’s disapproving _tsk_ as he took him in. Percival kept his head down, only darting his eyes to the side to gauge Grindelwald’s next move.

As silent as a wraith, the dark wizard stood up as well, circling the table to stand at Graves’ back. A warm, possessive hand came to rest low on his hips, and Percival swallowed audibly.

He felt fingers trail up his back, until a hand clamped down on the nape of Percival’s neck, making him tense all over. He felt like prey under that grip, heart racing, body weakening. Grindelwald murmured something in his ear, in a language Graves did not understand, but he felt calm wash over him, as if he were settling in front of a fire on a cold night. He relaxed minutely, a small sound escaping his throat as Grindelwald gently stroked the sensitive skin of his neck.

No one spoke. Graves did not know how long it lasted, this strong, warm presence at his back which against all odds made him feel safe instead of terrified. He knew it was a spell being used, but he welcomed the feeling all the same, at least for a little while. He could, if he closed his eyes, imagine that Theseus was there instead  - his friend, once his lover, lost to the other side of the sea. He could imagine that he himself wasn’t lost, that his hands weren’t chained, that his ribs didn’t show.

Grindelwald tugged at the collar of Graves’ shirt to kiss his shoulder, and Graves shuddered, his daydream broken. This was _not_ Theseus. This was a wanted man, who’d beaten, humiliated him, and locked him up in order to make him sing. He bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to clear his head, feeling uncomfortably warm and drowsy, and turned around.

“Steady, doll,” Grindelwald murmured, taking Graves’ face between his hands, fingernails just short of digging into the skin. “We’re going to make a deal. Are you with me?”

Percival blinked, then stifled a yawn with difficulty. Grindelwald sighed and murmured something else, and Graves felt more awake, more alert.

It was terrifying how quickly this man could reduce him to nothing but a body, responding to whatever spell Grindelwald threw his way.

“A deal?” He finally managed to say.

“Yes. Do you know what happened today? Tell me.”

“I ate,” Percival said numbly.

“That’s right. You ate. And why did I let you eat?”

“Because I…” Percival worried his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to think, his cheeks reddening. “I let you put lipstick on me?”

Grindelwald hummed in approval, eyes dropping to Percival’s lips. “You did. Is that all?”

“Y - you told me I’d have a blanket if I stood up and turned around.”

“Very good,” Grindelwald praised quietly. He snapped his fingers, and Graves stared in disbelief as the biggest, warmest blanket he owned flew from the armoire inside his living room only to land in Grindelwald’s arms. The man unfolded it, almost reverently, before draping it across Percival’s shoulders, satisfied when Graves’ shivering subsided. “Do you understand, then, how this is going to work?”

Graves shook his head negatively.

“You can ask me for anything. From now on, I want to make your stay here as my prisoner more agreeable. But in exchange, you will have to agree to the price to pay. It will always be fair, equivalent to your demands. What sacrifices are you willing to make to avoid pain, Percival Graves ?” Grindelwald let that sink in, lips curling up in front of Graves’ obvious distress. “So tell me. Is there anything you desire?”

Percival wrapped the blanket tighter around himself.

He did not know what he wanted. Or well, he did - but he doubted Grindelwald would agree if he said, “Surrender yourself to MACUSA and give me my life back, you utter dickhead.”  

So he thought - what did he want? What did he need? Up until a couple of hours, it had been to be healed, to be given water and food. But Grindelwald had come, had taken Graves upstairs, supporting his weight, and he’d made him feel better.

“ _You’re so weak," he’d murmured in Graves’ ear, almost amazed by that fact. Graves coughed, legs shaking. He knew that if Grindelwald dropped him he’d fall. “Have I been treating you that badly?”_

_“Fuck’ off,” Graves mumbled out of habit, but the words were barely audible. The truth was, he was as weak as a newborn foal, barely able to stand much less fight back. He could only follow Grindelwald’s guidance and try to make as little distressed noises as he could, even though Grindelwald’s smile told him he knew. He always did._

_Slowly, the both of them marched to the bathroom, but Graves couldn’t understand why. He avoided his own reflection in the mirror when Grindelwald sat him down on the edge of the tube, then kneeled before him._

_His hands settled on Graves’ thighs, rubbing soothing circles onto his skin through what remained of his pants. As he worked Graves felt warmth spread through him, sending tingles up his spine, and he shivered helplessly. The aches in his body subsided, little by little, until all he had left was exhaustion and burning eyes. He wanted to weep._

_“There you are,” Grindelwald said, and there he was._

He did not know why Grindelwald had wanted him to wear lipstick, nor had he cared. Not when he would be able to eat.

Of course, there’d been the possibility that Grindelwald was mocking him. That he’d paint Percival’s lips only to send him back to his prison, made to feel further humiliated and helpless. But if there was one thing Graves had learned as Grindelwald’s captive, it was that the wizard was a man of his words.

If Grindelwald promised to hurt you, then he would make sure you the pain was tenfold what you feared. If he promised to come back a couple of days later at a specific time because he was away on business, then he would come back to you exactly when he’d said he would. If he promised you a meal, then you would eat. If he promised you a blanket, then you’d get it.

If he offered you a deal, then you had better accept it.

“I want a shower,” he finally said, defeated, exhausted.

In front of him, Grindelwald grinned, victorious. “And you shall have it. The bathroom is yours. Go there, shave, wash your hair, brush your teeth and come back to me.”

“For what price?” Graves asked, mouth dry.

Grindelwald leaned in close, hand on Percival’s arm, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You have to give me a kiss.”

Graves’ eyes widened, his pulse quickening, a stab of fear lancing through him. He'd hoped to God Grindelwald wouldn't be interested in him in that fashion, and he hadn't been. He _hadn't_. What changed? Was he bored? “No.”

“Then I’m afraid this is the end of your stay here, my dear. Shame. You really _are_ quite dirty. For a man of your status, being reduced to less than a human must be terrible.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Graves seethed, backing away. “Don’t pity me when you’re the reason I’m in that fucking state.”

“Am I?” Grindelwald said. “At least I am offering to take care of you. Tell me, Percival - how long has it been since I replaced you?”

Graves reeled, as if physically struck. He didn’t want to reply, he didn’t, but the answer was burned into his brain, carved onto his tongue, day after day that passed where _no one noticed._ “Two months, a week and five days.”

“That’s right,” Grindelwald acquiesced, inclining his head. “And I, just like you, am tired of it. You’re an interesting man, Mr. Graves. I refuse to lock you up any longer. Accept my terms. You will only feel better for it.”

“I’d belong to you. How’s that an improvement?”

“Percival, please. You will be fed, clothed, you will sleep in a bed at night, you will be allowed everything you want save for freedom. And, my dear - I never said where you should kiss me,” Grindelwald retorted lightly. “You're the one who jumps to conclusions, but as pretty as you are, even I have standards. You're not exactly a sight to behold right now.”

Graves opened his mouth, then closed it. Grindelwald was right - he’d never said whether the kiss was a friendly one or an amorous one. He was the one who was frightened of its implications.

“A kiss on the cheek,” he said firmly. “Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” Grindelwald echoed, smiling. “You know the way to the bathroom, doll. Make it quick.”

-


	2. It Pulls Me Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You're absurd,” Graves retorted, unable to hold back. “You and your lipstick and your deals, and your so-called ambitions. All you want to do is fuel your own ego. You like making me weak. You like watching me starve and beg for help. You’re a sick fuck who thrives in humiliation. I’ve met people like you. None quite as powerful, but in the end you’re all the same.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo *shy wave* 
> 
> Thank you for all the suscriptions/bookmarks and kudos guys, I honestly didn't think you would like it this much >:D 
> 
> A thousand thanks to Qed_Scribblings for beta reading <3

There were no words to describe how Percival felt when he sunk in the warm bath.

For a minute, he considered slipping beneath the surface of the water and breathing in, letting his hard won prize flood his lungs, strangling the life out of him before Grindelwald had the chance to do so in a less merciful manner.

He already knew he was insignificant. So easily replaced. So easily broken, for someone once thought so strong. The fall was quicker than he thought it would be, too.

But - he wasn't brave enough. As exhausted as he was, as useless as he’d become, as worthless as Grindelwald had made him feel, he still clung to life, with the desperate hope that he may just get out of this still. It was the only thing he had left. He was also sure that Grindelwald, somehow, had a means of knowing what he was doing in that instant. Any attempts at harming himself to find an escape would no doubt be for naught.

Taking a washcloth, he started scrubbing his skin raw - tinting the water red. He emptied the bath, filled it up again, and this time sunk all the way in, until his head was underwater.

Massaging his scalp as he washed his hair was heavenly. He sighed with it as he washed the dirt, grime and blood away from his body, watching it disappear down the drain as he emptied the bath for the second time.

He stepped into the shower, looking at himself. He was clean, but marred and far too thin. He breathed deeply, resting his forehead against the tiles. Grabbing the soap, he washed again, more slowly, taking comfort in the familiar, circular motions - pretending, just for a moment, that this was just another day coming home from work. Then he would get out of the shower, dry off, put on the softest bathrobe he owned and go back to his living-room for a quiet evening. He’d put on his reading glasses, the ones that made him look smart, pour himself some herbal tea and read a book until he began to doze off in his armchair. Perhaps he’d fall asleep there, or perhaps he’d muster the courage to wobble to his own bed and sink into it until his alarm rang at five the next morning.

He’d never quite appreciated what it meant to be free, did he?

Instead, he stepped out of the shower, a knot in his stomach, and walked over to the mirror. He was still wet, and he had no idea how much time he had left before Grindelwald became impatient and sought him out.

The cuffs preventing him from doing magic, he’d have to shave the traditional way, which meant being forced to look at his reflection again. He swallowed, hands braced on either side of the sink, and stared.

Wet, long strands of hair framed his face, covering what was left of his undercut. His tangled, heavy beard was a visual proof that he’d utterly failed at his job, and he felt overwhelmed by the need to get rid of it. To find himself again, hidden beneath what Grindelwald had made of him. He crouched down, opening the cupboard under the sink, where he grabbed a brush, a bowl, shaving cream and a straight razor.

With trembling hands he lathered his own face, then took a deep breath as he pressed the blade over his cheek. Hair fell into the sink as he slowly shaved, and with each careful swipe of the blade he felt a little bit more like his older self. This was familiar. He loved shaving the traditional way, choosing only to do it with magic when he was pressed by time. He used his razor on the weekends, lazily taking care of himself before being swept up by the rush of every matters requiring his attention. It felt good to be here, to do this. The gentle splash of water echoed around him as he rinsed the razor in the basin, before tilting his head back to apply it under his chin.

He rinsed his face with cold water, and dabbed at it with a soft towel he’d taken from the cupboard. Grindelwald had left things exactly as they were. Were it not for the exhaustion he felt or the foreign brush of too-long hair against his forehead, Graves could almost believe this to be another normal day.  

He stored away his shaving tools manually. Behind the door hung his bathrobe, a deep navy blue one which he hoped Grindelwald hadn’t used.

(He probably had. The man wore his skin, after all.)

Stepping closer, Graves took it off the rack, bringing it to his nose to smell it. To his surprise it was fresh, even clean. Did Grindelwald do laundry? The thought seemed utterly ludicrous in its normalcy, and Percival let out a light snort.

He put the bathrobe on, lulling himself again into a semblance of familiarity he couldn’t seem to shake. It felt nice against his skin, warming him. He snuggled against the hem of it, closing his eyes for a brief second to relish in the feeling of comfort he had been allowed. _I shouldn’t._ He knew that, yet he couldn’t help it. He was clean. He’d been fed. He would be warm tonight too, back in his prison thanks to Grindelwald’s --

Graves’ eyes snapped open, and his teeth rattled against each other as he realized the direction his thoughts had taken. What was wrong with him? Grindelwald had beaten him, starved him, made him a prisoner inside his own home and Percival had almost gone insane from it. He was not _generous_. He was not _kind_. He was manipulative and preyed on Graves’ weaknesses to get what he wanted.

Graves didn’t know precisely _what_ it was. He could haphazard a guess, given Grindelwald’s last request, but it did not make sense. The wizard could have just taken him forcefully if he wanted Graves to truly break. But he hadn’t. Instead he had given Percival choices, unfair though they were, and Graves felt stronger in this instant than he had been in the past two months. It was a long time for a man to despair. With Grindelwald’s deal, he had an out. With Grindelwald's deal, he could survive his captivity for a much longer time than he’d thought he would.

He didn’t know what to do.

He walked over to the sink again. Grindelwald had probably used his toothbrush. Graves made a face, until he saw the new one standing next to his own in a glass near the sink.

He brushed his teeth like Grindelwald told him to. Once, twice, thrice, as if he could vanish the taste of iron that seemed to be permanently coating the walls of his mouth. He wiped his face with the same towel he'd used before, brushed his hair back, clipped his nails - and when he could put it off no longer, he made his way to the door again. There was a tightness in his chest that made it hard to breathe, and his hands felt clammy at the thought of what awaited him.

_A kiss on the cheek. Nothing more._

He opened the door. The flat was silent, plunged into darkness. Graves stepped out quietly, darting his eyes left and right, ears strained to listen to any sound that might indicate Grindelwald was just waiting in a corner to grip him by the hair and drag him back to his prison. He dared step further, his heart racing in his chest. There were still cuffs around his wrists, of course; around his ankles as well, weighing him down, but perhaps if he ran fast enough to the front door --

There was a low chuckle on his right, and Percival shook in fright. The air shimmered, and Grindelwald appeared, lifting his disillusionment charm. He’d been so silent, his spell so powerful that for all his years of training Graves had failed to notice him. Eyes wide, he looked at Grindelwald before ducking his head, despair coursing through his entire being.

He was a fool and a failure.

“Follow me.”

Graves did. What choice did he have? Shivering, he wrapped the bathrobe tight around himself, and followed Grindelwald to the living room. There was a fire burning low in the fireplace, red coals pulsing in front of Graves’ eyes. He was drawn to it, but he stayed standing, waiting to see what Grindelwald would do.

The dark wizard sat in Graves’ favorite armchair. Crooking two fingers, he gestured for Graves to come to him, and Percival obeyed. He stood in front of Grindelwald, a few feet apart, but Grindelwald clicked his tongue in disapproval. Percival felt a push of magic at his back and did not have the time to protest. Pulled forward, he only regained his balance with Grindelwald’s hands steadying his hips and his own legs trapped between Grindelwald’s. Grindelwald’s face was at eye-level with his navel, yet when he looked up at Graves it was clear that despite his low position _he_ was the one in control. Graves could scarcely comprehend what he wanted to do, what he meant to achieve.

When magic smothered him again and forced him to kneel he followed, although fear spread through him at the things such position could imply. But Grindelwald merely pulled him close to hug him, his nose buried in Graves’ hair to inhale his scent. He hummed in approval and drew back, taking Graves’ face between his hands to interrogate him.

“Did you do everything I asked of you?”

“Yes,” Graves said.

“Describe it to me.”

“I washed myself. A couple of times. Brushed my hair. Shaved -”

“Yes,” Grindelwald said, voice low - his fingers stroking Graves’ smooth cheeks. “That is a definite improvement.”

Graves swallowed. “B - brushed my teeth.”

Grindelwald’s eyes dropped to his lips. “Good girl.”

Graves’ hands shook as he placed them atop Grindelwald’s, to make the wizard, who was humiliating him so, release him. He leaned in and Grindelwald turned his head to the side, letting Percival drop a quick kiss on his cheek. Grindelwald smirked, and Percival quickly tried to get up again, to run away from here, but found he couldn’t. Grindelwald still held him down, and his hands hadn’t left Graves’ face.

“We agreed to a kiss,” he said thickly, watching Grindelwald’s face to try to guess his intentions.

“We did. But I am a greedy man, and you are in no position to argue. It is I who kisses you, and not the opposite.”

“Leave me alone,” Graves said, fighting against the magic keeping him in place.

Grindelwald smiled. He tilted Percival’s head up and kissed him instead, ignoring his struggles. Graves stilled. Grindelwald's mouth against his felt hot, wet and nice. He kept his eyes open wide, staring at Grindelwald’s pale eyelashes. The kiss was short and languid and Grindelwald pulled back, smiling at him.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

-

That night, bundled up tightly in the blanket Grindelwald gave him, Graves reflected. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest. He hid his face in the soft, warm fabric of the comforter. It was the first time since the beginning of his captivity where he couldn’t feel the cold. He was, instead, pleasantly fuzzy, dozing off on a full stomach and the memory of warm hands against his skin.

He snuggled further into the blanket and closed his eyes.

 _Grindelwald._ Grindelwald had kissed him. A criminal, intent on revealing their society to the eyes of the world - running the risk of killing all of wizardkind in the process. A man, who Graves had been chasing for months. This man had kissed him. Graves had let him.

Worse - and here, in the darkness of his prison, he could admit it to himself - it had felt... Good. To be held. To be kissed, even for a brief moment. To be warm, kneeling at Grindelwald’s feet with the fire at his back. Graves grumbled half hearted curses, wanting nothing more than to give Grindelwald a piece of his mind. They’d had a _deal_. Why did Grindelwald have to ruin it?

Why did he have to make Percival feel that way?

Did he want what Grindelwald was offering?

He could last in prison for a few days without food or water until Grindelwald deigned give him something to ensure his survival. This was how it had been for the past months, and Graves had made it this far. But now that he’d had a taste of how much better -- a taste of how _good_ his life could become, if he just --

But he couldn't. Even if he did give in, he had no guarantees that Grindelwald would stop torturing him for information - although, Graves realized, he hadn't done so in a while. With everyday that passed Grindelwald became better at _being_ him, and he had no more use for Graves’ secrets when he learned them all while working his job.

Percival had been left alone. Hurt, starved and despairing until Grindelwald came to see him. He hadn’t healed his bruises and aches - Graves wondered what would be the price for that.

But he did keep his promises.

Grindelwald had no more use for him as the Director. He knew everything. Was defiance really all he had left? Was his pride worth his downfall? Obedience. That’s what Grindelwald wanted from him. That’s what Graves had _already_ given him, he realized. Even if magic had helped - in the end, it was Graves’ own weaknesses and fears that made him kneel and obey. He’d accepted Grindelwald’s kiss with terror in his heart, but it had felt as gentle as a lover’s touch.

He wanted more.

_You will be allowed everything you want, save for freedom._

Grindelwald was giving him power. If Graves yielded that power carefully, he could turn the situation around. He could take back the life that was taken from him. All he had to do was play Grindelwald’s little game, and come out on top.

All he had to do, was ignore the way Grindelwald made him feel.

This was his only escape.

-

He woke up the next morning curled up inside the blanket, to the soft touch of a hand stroking his hair. It felt so nice that he chased the feeling when it pulled away, and someone chuckled above him. Graves blinked, slowly unfurling from his little cocoon.

Grindelwald was crouched in front of him, with an amused smile on his face. “Did you sleep well, little darling?”

Graves nodded mutely, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He _had_ , much to his dismay. The blanket was almost as thick as a mattress when he laid upon it, and - although he still had bruises on his body - this time he’d barely felt them. Grindelwald’s smile widened, crow feet deepening in the corners of his eyes. He held his hand out towards Graves.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s have breakfast. You and I.”

Graves looked at him.

He nuzzled the hand offered to him and heard Grindelwald's sharp intake of breath, then his soft laugh. A thumb came to rest on his lips, and Graves parted them obediently, letting Grindelwald explore him. His captor’s gaze turned dark. He shifted closer.

“What do you want today, baby girl?”

_I want to fight you._

Graves couldn't speak, not with Grindelwald's fingers in his mouth, but he knew the other man had heard his thoughts. He _bit_ down, hard - blood welling around each enameled bone. Grindelwald hissed in pain,  but he didn’t draw back. Graves was right. He'd been expecting this to happen.

He pulled back, spitting on the floor. He was breathing heavily, and Gellert fared no better, looking down at his injured hand with a mix of disgust and fascination.

“Fighting is useless, Percival,” he said, closing his fist. “What must I do to make you understand?”

Graves licked his teeth before giving him a feral smile. “At least my intentions are clear.”

“I thought we were above this,” Grindelwald said, seemingly disappointed. “I only want the best for you.”

“You're absurd,” Graves retorted, unable to hold back. “You and your lipstick and your deals, and your so-called _ambitions_. All you want to do is fuel your own ego. You like making me weak. You like watching me starve and beg for help. You’re a sick fuck who thrives in humiliation. I’ve met people like you. None quite as powerful, but in the end you’re all the same.”

“I am unlike anyone you ever met,” Grindelwald said sharply.

He rose up. Light seeped from his skin, swirling around his knuckles to heal the broken skin. Graves shivered at the feel of his magic. The taste of iron still clung to his own palate.

“What do you want today, Percival?” Grindelwald repeated as he banished the blanket Graves still held onto with a snap of his fingers.

With a start, Graves realized that none of the things he gained would be permanent. Each day, Grindelwald would ask the same question, and each day, there would be a new price to pay.

“I want it back.”

Grindelwald bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “Your life? Your skin?”

“The blanket,” Graves said bristly. He stood up as well and crossed his arms, staring at Grindelwald, unyielding. “I paid for it. I am not kissing you everyday just to be able to fucking sleep at night.”

“This is not the best way to argue with me, darling,” Grindelwald said. “But I’ll indulge you. Keep the blanket until the end of the week.”

Graves frowned. “What day is it?”

“Saturday,” Grindelwald said. _Two months, a week and six days._ “I thought you were keeping count?”

 _Bastard._ “I want it for longer than that. We’re in December.”

“Of course. Just remember there will be a price.”

 _Then learn the rules._ “Lots of good your little game will do you if I freeze to death in this hole,” Graves said, voice low. “What the fuck do _you_ want?”

Grindelwald smiled. “Let me take care of you. Let me touch you. You need a haircut, doll - I know you've thought it, and I can help you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos give Graves more kisses, comments give him a haircut - although the result might be _slightly_ different from what he expected. 
> 
> I hope you liked the chapter ! :)


	3. The Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have been nothing but honest with you since the beginning of this relationship,” he hissed. “Believe me when I say nobody died. You needn’t concern your pretty, empty head with these matters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited and unbetaed, all mistakes are mine. Percival is a lot of fun to write.

He felt good. Not, not good - blissful. Yeah, that was it. As though… as though he had been immersed in a hot bath for hours. He was filled with languid warmth, down to the tips of his toes, which he wiggled just to check if he hadn’t physically been reduced to a puddle of goo.

Everywhere Grindelwald touched him, his skin tingled in the most pleasant ways, and when he lingered on the nape of Percival’s neck it sent shivers rippling through his whole body. He was unable to resist tipping his head back, baring his neck in offering to the man who was giving him such pleasure. Grindelwald was murmuring a low tune, like a lullaby; and as he did so Graves could feel his body melting even further in the soft cushions of the luscious armchair. Following his proposal, Grindelwald had improvised himself a hairdresser, and Graves - out of survival - had simply yielded to his gentle hands. He did not regret it.

Gentleness was a concept that had become foreign in his everyday life, but Percival never noticed how affected he was by the lack of it until it was offered to him. Such soft and caring touches, the affection given by Grindelwald, felt frankly as alien as seeing another person wear his face had - but contrary to that, now Percival only felt relieved and comforted and safe. His enemy was touching him lovingly, yet he wasn’t reeling, or fighting, and his stomach didn’t churn with disgust like it should have.

Because with each caress, each stroke, each press of fingers against his skin, it was as though his body was awakening. His eyelashes fluttered shut as Grindelwald massaged the nape of his neck. The man tangled his fingers in Graves’ long hair, and Percival tried to talk, but his tongue felt too heavy. All he could feel was Grindelwald - his hand pulling his hair, his warm breath on Percival's neck, warm lips against his skin - then a tongue, flicking out and licking at his earlobe, and Percival arched his back, moaning weakly. Grindelwald chuckled, his grip tightening in Graves’ hair.

“You’ll be so pretty for me,” he murmured, rolling the adjective in his mouth with decadence. “My own pretty little darling.” His other hand came up to Graves’ shoulder _,_ and he tugged the bathrobe down achingly slowly. Graves could feel every inch of the feather-like fabric gliding against his skin, exposing his naked shoulder and back. He turned his head, seeking contact; and smiled when Grindelwald kissed his neck, before opening his mouth. A hand gripped his chin, and Percival’s throat clicked as he swallowed.  

He was being kissed; open-mouthed, with lips and tongue, and he kept his own lips parted obediently, letting Grindelwald explore him.

“Good girl,” Grindelwald murmured, pulling back. “There you go. All nice and quiet.”

Percival opened his eyes, and Grindelwald looked at him with something close to wonder. It made him want more, made him want to be good. He leaned into the man's touch at the back of his head, where one of his hands supported him.

“I am so lucky to have found you.”

Graves hummed, having no idea what the other man was babbling about. All he wanted was to keep being touched so lovingly, as though he was a fragile little thing in need of having its wings mended. Perhaps that was exactly what Grindelwald was doing to him - fixing him to allow him to fly, giving him a new freedom. Perhaps Percival was wrong in wanting to fight him; perhaps all he needed was to listen and obey, and then he could be free.

Here, he was being cared for and dotted on. What awaited him outside if only pain and misery? It was better to stay there and let Grindelwald take care of him, for many years to come. If he did, then surely nothing would go wrong, not as long as Grindelwald was by his side. His thoughts were rewarded by another kiss on his neck and a scrape of teeth, eliciting a shiver from him. Percival looked up and craned his neck in order to see the other man.

Maintaining eye contact, he spread his legs in front of him, like the very picture of debauchery. He heard Grindelwald’s breath hitch, and he needed to get closer - he rolled over, languidly, until he was lying on his front. Like a cat, he stretched and straightened up until he was kneeling on the armchair seat. Grindelwald seemed hypnotized. He grabbed Percival by the lapels of his bathrobe, tugging him up for another kiss.

It was deeper, wetter, rougher than their last had been. Grindelwald all but devoured him; there was a hand curled around his throat, another pressed against his back so they could be closer together. Percival couldn’t breathe - he didn’t mind. All his focus was stolen by Grindelwald’s lips on his, hot and claiming and perfect. The man pulled back abruptly to stare at him; Percival didn’t know what he saw, but his eyes went dark with unconcealed, sheer want. And it made liquid heat roll through his body, made his blood pound, made him aware that he hadn't been touched properly in _months_. He ached for it.

The bathrobe was useless, pooled low on his waist, only held back by the jut of his hips and the loose belt. His lips were swollen and stinging, and Percival didn’t understand why he wanted to cry.

Grindelwald stepped back. He waved his hand, and Percival gasped at he was suddenly encased in a bubble of light. The magic enveloping him felt foreign yet good; it made Percival reminisce of his mother’s embrace and his father’s cologne, of his childhood home back in the country, and of sleepless nights practicing his spellwork until he was dizzy. When it vanished, Grindelwald had disappeared - and with him, the fuzziness Graves had felt so far since he agreed to Grindelwald’s demand.

He felt cold. The warmth and safety he'd been lulled into were gone.

In their stead, dread curled around his heart, gripping it like a vice. He remembered Grindelwald touching him - kissing him - claiming him - and his _helplessness_ to resist it all.

How could he not? He was supposed to be stronger than that. Grindelwald manipulated him like a master, yes - and lost him along the way. How much of what he thought during these times with his captor came from him, and how much were fallacies and lies he was made to believe in? A glint caught his eye. Graves turned his head towards the mantle, feeling something against his neck. On instinct, he drew his hand up to touch it.

It was nothing but a strand of hair - his hair. So long as to fall just past his shoulders. As long as woman’s would be.

Struggling to understand, he carefully left the chair to walk up to the mirror attached on the wall, above the mantle.

He looked ten years younger.

He looked like someone else had taken his face yet again, leaving behind a poor, confused young man with wide eyes.

Stepping closer, he started palpating his face in disbelief. The ever-present scruff on his neck and jaw was gone, leaving smooth, flawless skin in its stead - as though he never outgrew childhood. His hair shone with renewed health, silky to the touch, and there was not a hint of silver clouding it.

He blinked. His eyebrows were thinner, evened out and arched more. Even his _eyelashes_ seemed different - thicker and darker, as if he was wearing makeup.

He looked down, realizing with a start his state of undress. He tugged the bathrobe up his shoulders quickly, tying it properly at the front once more. But he was unable to tear his eyes away from his own reflection.

He tried to talk. His voice was the same, thank God for small mercies, but he noticed his lips seemed… fuller. As though an artist had corrected their shape with a brush. It was not ridiculous or overdone, but it drew the eye to them, making them look more inviting, ripe for a kiss. Color bloomed high on his cheeks at the thought, and he realized with agitation that his face, as a whole, looked more feminine. Softened out, rounder, kinder. A sheet of distress ruined Grindelwald’s hard work in a moment, creasing his brow and the lineless edges of his lips - and in his sudden, familiar rage he almost felt like himself again. He held onto it, all but choking on it, if only so he could recognize the man in the mirror.

Face twisted, he wheeled around, fully intending to give Gellert Grindelwald a piece of his mind, because _what in Merlin’s good name was that._ Why the fuck did he look - not like a woman, exactly, but still like a soft, watered-down, _weaker_ version of himself?

What good did it accomplish? Why would Grindelwald do this to him? It served no purpose. Held no meaning. A useless effort, seemingly to break Percival in. What was he _doing?_ Proving a point? Reaffirming his control, perhaps?

Or was he just using Percival as his guinea pig to fulfill a couple of sick, twisted fantasies? What was Percival’s role in all of this? How was he meant to act now that he looked like this? Was he the good little housewife, welcoming Grindelwald home at the end of the day, spreading his legs so the other man could fuck his worries away?

Percival sneered. Grindelwald was clearly sick. Just his luck, to be taken in by a madman with a liking for… For what? Graves wondered. Feminine men?! He pulled a face. It made no sense. _Or well, it does, god knows the things I’ve seen, but not at my age._ For crying out loud, he was almost forty! Who would want to see him play dress-up? Make-up, long hair - what was the next step? Unman him completely?

His cheeks burned with humiliation. Grindelwald only wanted to ridicule and shame him for his own bent amusement. It was better than being tortured within an inch of his pitiful life, but... Graves felt a deep sadness at being forced to see himself that way, at simply knowing that the choice to look like this had been robbed from him from the start. It crashed down, and no amount of self-denial would be enough to forget he ever thought this.

Because a part of him - someway, somehow, buried deep within his core - liked his new look. A part of him liked what Grindelwald did: taking care of him, making him feel loved, making him - desirable. He had not felt that in years. And he hated that it wasn’t his _choice._

He hated the bargaining and mind games the other man played on him because perhaps, just perhaps, he wanted _this_ \- whatever it was - to be explored freely.

Yet even as he thought it, he couldn't be sure that these were his own desires, or Grindelwald’s.

The man used so many spells to play with Percival’s conscious state of mind that his thoughts remained, like now, a continuous maelstrom of emotions and never-ending interrogations. It made his head throb, and his heart ache. He felt tears prickling at his eyes, and bitterly wiped them with the back of his hand.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know how he felt, what decisions to make, what would be good for him - what would help him survive this. More often than not he felt drunk on Grindelwald’s presence - how could he ever take rational decisions like this, when his mind and body were being played with, and his inhibitions lowered constantly? What should he do?

He was trapped, utterly, feeling as lost and helpless as a child. His plan had been to go along with Grindelwald’s game and turn the rules against him. It hadn’t even been one day, and already Graves felt ready to give up and turn away from this madness if it meant he didn’t lose his own sanity. He would lose his health, yes, but he could survive like he had done so far, just a little bit longer. At least he wouldn’t lose himself.

Not that he knew who himself was anymore. Was he the image Grindelwald kept projecting everyday as he walked around wearing his face? Was he the injured, defiant man locked away in the basement? Or was he this soft, mellow man who liked comfort and kisses, even if they were offered by a maniac?

Was Grindelwald a maniac? Or was he a clever man in pursuit of his own ideals?

What should he do?

Graves stayed frozen in place, biting and pulling at the soft skin of his lips until they were raw and bleeding. _What should he do? What should he do? Grindelwald would come back soon, he would. Would what? Do what? What did he expect? What did he want? How could Percival please him? Did he please him? Should he have to please him? God, he needed out, out, out. OUT!_

Percival stumbled back, back, back until he hit the mantle. His breath was short and shaky; he thought he saw Grindelwald in the corner of his vision. His world narrowed down to a single point - the empty living-room in front of him, and further away - the door.

The door. The entrance - in a flash Percival saw himself running, opening it and throwing himself outside, outside where he could feel fresh air and the sun or the rain on his face and see other people, and _live_ again -

He wheezed, crouched down on the floor, holding his head up in his hands, shaking all over. He was breathing too quickly and he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t end this, he could never end this - and he was going to stay trapped there forever, he was going to become Grindelwald’s plaything and - and no one would ever notice and oh, _god -_

“Oh, god,” he wailed. “Oh, god - p - p - please, no - no -”

He needed to get help. He needed to get help but he didn’t want anyone to see him like this, but he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe oh god, and he couldn’t move his hand either it hurt it hurt everything hurt, he couldn’t breathe -

Hands, on his shoulders. He sobbed louder, throwing himself at the man who was responsible for all of this, and he let himself be embraced, he let himself be soothed and grounded by the arms around his back and the familiar scent around him and the warmth of Grindelwald’s body against his. The human contact helped - something so trivial and basic that Percival felt like crying again. Gradually, his breathing eased, until he was no longer gasping and blubbering but instead just breathing deeply and sniffling. Grindelwald breathed with him, one hand in Percival’s long hair, caressing him gently to help him calm down.

And he held him. He held him until Percival felt like he could breathe again, until he could move his hand without pain, until he no longer felt so cold.

He was exhausted.

Weakly, out of principle, Percival pushed Grindelwald away. But his hands stayed on the man’s chest, and Grindelwald kept his arms around him. Percival sniffled again, and without thinking searched Grindelwald’s vest pocket for the handkerchief he knew he always kept there - _yes_. He heard Grindelwald chuckle above him, and blew his nose.

He felt so small. So insignifiant. Perhaps Grindelwald had taken care to shrink him, too, making him smaller than he was. _Less than a man, eh._ He hid his new tears in the handkerchief, and when he was done he threw it to the floor without care. Merlin, he was so tired. Tired and heavy, his eyelids drooping and the world dimming around him. Grindelwald kissed his forehead softly, and Graves closed his eyes and let himself fall.  He knew Grindelwald would catch him.

* * *

 

He spent the next few days shrouded in silence. He felt vacant, utterly empty, all fight having left him after he’d cried himself hollow in Grindelwald’s arms. Mercifully, his captor didn’t visit him, and where once before Percival would have become sick at the implications of such silence on his side, now all he could do was lie there in his cell, wrapped in the heavy blanket he had managed to keep. He refused to think about what he had gone through to get it, and only focused on the fact that it was there - a heavy, familiar weight keeping him warm.

When his body started aching from the inactivity, Graves would unfurl from his foetus-like position of comfort and try to walk around a bit. He stretched his stiffened limbs one by one. Although his stomach growled, he refused to call Grindelwald in.

At least he had water. He’d been sleeping, unable to take note of the magic at work, but Grindelwald had done something, and now he had a little glowing fountain set in one corner of the room with fresh, cool water.

This catatonic state - later, Graves would be too ashamed of himself to even admit it such a display of weakness happened at all - lasted for two days. Or he assumed it was two days. A bit hard to keep track of time in the shithole that was his own cellar, especially with no light, no visits, no nothing to indicate another world awaited him outside this door if he could just _get his act together, and stop wallowing in self-pity._

Bitterly, Percival paced around his cell.

Whatever it was that he’d been feeling was giving way to anger and restlessness, and now all he wanted was to see Grindelwald again so he could either punch him in the nose and fight his way to freedom or - or, since the man liked him, since Grindelwald liked kissing him and dolling him up and taking care of him, he could kiss him senseless when he arrived and _seduce_ his way to freedom. Which had been the original plan, but he just kept getting sidetracked by one, his own fucking feelings, and two, the fucking spells Grindelwald used to make him go as weak as a kitten. All he needed was a pink bow in his outrageously long hair, and perhaps a collar with a tinkling bell to go with it, right?

Graves stopped pacing. Hands on his hips, he heaved a sigh and looked at the ceiling because _god,_ the _humiliation._ He had never been so humiliated. He’d had to deal with torture before, and he knew how to seduce people, but never had he had to deal with Gellert Grindelwald - a man who thought himself a God, and who not only tortured him, but mentally manipulated him into doing things Graves was only vaguely aware of, physically modified his body to suit his own tastes - _and Merlin, how sick was that_ \- and forced Graves to be the willing participant of his own downfall? How was he meant to remain in control enough to seduce _that?_

Because that was the issue, wasn’t it. For now, what bothered him the most was that he was only half-aware of what was being done to him. He needed Grindelwald to think he needn’t use magic to control him and make him obedient. He still wouldn’t be able to fight back - Grindelwald could beat him to a pulp faster than Percival could blink - but it would give him… a semblance of control. It wouldn't change the stranglehold Grindelwald had over him, over his safety, his freedom, his body, but it would control the when, and the where, and the how of things - and that's more than he had before. Trying to fight back, over and over again, was useless; he’d understood that much by now. Better to make Grindelwald think he had won, even if that meant losing the last things he had left - his snark, his dignity, his ego. This was nothing but another mask to put on, another role to play, and Graves had done that enough, what with working for the government. When Grindelwald came back, the curtain would rise; but this time Graves would be willingly playing his part. That was important to him.

If Grindelwald thought he liked it, then Percival would be in control. Surely, it would not be too hard to convince him - not when he’d already had the fleeting thought, himself, that Grindelwald was forcibly breaking a dam inside him he never knew existed. Something present but unexplored. Or perhaps that was yet another spell, forcing desires he never had before upon him; and if the solution was to fully embrace them instead of fighting them, then he would. He would if it meant he could remain himself and know what had been done to him. His reaction wouldn’t have been as violent if only he had been aware of the changes Grindelwald forced on his body - because they weren’t all bad. He hadn’t been made into a woman, hadn’t woken up with a sore cunt and a pair of tits. He only looked younger and - even if he shuddered at the thought - prettier. That was okay. Completely fine. He could work with that. Based on his appearance, he could even muster up a personality Grindelwald would like.

Although maybe the man didn’t care? In which case, Graves was fucked, but he’d been fucked ever since Grindelwald captured him anyway. Being fully aware of his own actions was the first stepping stone towards freedom. He wouldn’t suffer panic and confusion. He wouldn't suffer, at all, if he really played Grindelwald’s game. And he would set the rules for him, too. He could survive a fucking kiss, or two, or three, if Grindelwald agreed in turn to let him keep a clear head.

Which also meant he would be aware of everything when Grindelwald kissed him, or - god forbid - decided to do more. Graves made a face. It was a small price to pay - he just had to let it happen and think of MACUSA, or he could think of someone else. Perhaps it wouldn’t even be so bad, if he told Grindelwald was he liked.

 _The story of how Percival Graves, head of the DMLE, whored his way to freedom._ Hmm. Yeah, that would look good in the newspapers once he was free.

Determined to act up to his plan, Graves remained standing as he awaited Grindelwald’s return with impatience. It was no big deal, he could do this. He would be irresistible.

* * *

 

Graves waited. High strung on tension, he was ready to act on his new plan, but for that he kind of needed Grindelwald to show up. He didn’t know whether he wanted to be standing, sitting, or lying down when the wizard finally deigned to visit him. He took to pacing again, and once he got tired, he decided to sit. He felt for the ever-present cuffs at his wrists, and in a bout of boredom, tried to call for his magic. The _lumos_ he pronounced had no more effect than if he’d just tried to lit a wet match, and he sighed - feeling restless once more.

Where the hell was Grindelwald?

* * *

 

It had been another day, and now Graves was not only hungry as hell - god, he would have given his soul to the devil for some stale bread in this moment - but he was _worried._

Grindelwald never left him alone for so long before. He always made sure to visit every night, or at the very least once every two days to bring Percival his pitiful sustenance and drag information out of him. And that was before; now, with their little arrangement, Percival knew Grindelwald wanted him closer. He wouldn’t let him wither away and starve as though nothing had changed - and especially not since Graves’ little crisis a couple days before. It was not that Grindelwald cared, not exactly - but Percival did not expect to be just ignored after what happened. After he’d all but finally come to terms with his situation and given up the fight. Given the way things were going, Grindelwald should take advantage of his fragile state to enforce the monopoly he held over him.

But no. He had all but seemingly vanished, which could only mean two things, perhaps three.

Exhibit A: Grindelwald has been discovered. Which meant, ideally speaking, that Percival only had to hold on a little while longer before Aurors raided his apartment and found him.

Exhibit B: Grindelwald was… sulking. Sulking him for his little fit, perhaps. Maybe he’d decided Percival wasn’t worth the hassle after all and since he had no more intel to gather from him - Graves hadn’t stepped foot in his own office in months and had no clue what was going on outside, after all - it was easier to ignore him and let him die. _God, please no._

Graves urgently focused on ticking off his options, lest he be swept up by another wave of panic. _Exhibit C…_ What else could have happened? Grindelwald was dead. Killed in the line of duty while still wearing Graves’ face. Or he had been simply injured and was resting. Fuck, if he was unconscious, in a fucking coma or whatever, Graves was fucked. Again. No one would know he was, in fact, not in a hospital, but here and alive, and when they found out it would be too late.

But no. That was ridiculous. Graves was out of options. Or maybe it was worse - Grindelwald had found what he was looking for on American soil, and he’d gone back to Europe with it to put his plans in motion, forgetting Percival in the process, in which case the whole wizarding world was fucked, and it was all Percival’s fault.

“Jesus Christ,” Graves muttered. “m gonna have a fit if I keep this up.” He raked his hand through his hair, which was getting greasy. “Come on, you bastard.” Maybe Grindelwald could hear him? “I miss you.” Three days or so in solitary had fucked with his brain, and now that he’d pronounced the words, he found they were only half-lies. He thought back of the first deal they made - a kiss in exchange for using the bathroom - and what happened afterwards, how good it had felt to lay there with Grindelwald kissing him slowly and the chimney fire at his back.

 _Yes, I'm fucked_. Right now, he just needed to know he hadn’t been forgotten, because bloody hell did the thought scared him. Say, if Grindelwald had died wearing his face, no one would know Graves alive. On the upside, there would be no war, but on the downside, he would die of starvation, and weirdly enough, he did not look forward to it. He was already reaching his limits.

He tried a different approach. Almost in a frenzy, he climbed up the stairs to the door of the basement, and pounded it with both fists. The sound echoed around him, along with his voice. “Grindelwald! I know you can hear me, just open the door.” His throat was dry. “...Please? I’ll do whatever you want.” A dangerous promise, he knew, but if it got a reaction out of his captor then it was worth it. He wanted out, damn it, no matter what it would take, but he couldn’t just be left alone here like this. What was Grindelwald playing at? “Come on, you --”

The door opened wide. Caught off guard - he hadn’t expected this to work - Percival stumbled forward, only to be caught by strong arms. His own arms, and that was his own suit, and that was his own face - and _that_ was just plain weird. He suppressed a shiver and straightened up as Grindelwald looked down at him.

He seemed… weary. Worn-thin and exhausted, eyes ringed with fatigue, his mouth turned down in a grim expression that made Graves want to be stupidly kind. He held the ebony wand loosely, and his suit was rumpled and dirty, at least two days old. There was stubble on his jaw. At least one of them, Percival thought viciously, looked like himself. He grit his teeth, a hot stab of anger lancing through him as he thought again of what he had lost. He could only hope to god that the changes Grindelwald had done to his body weren’t permanent.

But now was not the time to mourn his appearance. Something clearled happened, something that meant Grindelwald hadn’t been able to come home in days, something that explained his worn out state, and Percival _needed_ to know what it was.

Before his very eyes, his own face melted away. Grindelwald looked even worse. There was a displeased glint in his eyes as he took Graves in from head to toe, before he brutally stepped forward. Graves cowered instinctively, ducking his head, and noticed with alarm that he only came up to Grindelwald’s shoulder now. That was one theory taken care off: his transformation also included being _smaller._ He’d never been a tall man to begin with - hence the compensation with the spats and all that - but now he was considerably smaller than average, something Grindelwald used to his advantage.

“What -” Graves started, intending to ask _what happened,_ but before he could Grindelwald had wrapped a hand around his throat, and all that came out was a strangled sound of surprise. His heart jack-hammered in his chest as familiar, sudden terror seized his limbs, and all he could do was stare at Grindelwald wide-eyed as the man guided him back until he was trapped between the his body and the wall at his back.

“I’ve missed you,” Grindelwald said and God, _how was he so tall?_

Without permission, Grindelwald leant in to claim his lips, and Graves stiffened. Grindelwald’s mouth was hot and slick against his, and he tugged at Percival’s lower lip sharply before biting down. The pain made him gasp, and Grindelwald’s hand went from his neck up to his chin, gripping it to angle his head and kiss him again. Mind spinning, Graves struggled to remember that he was meant to want this - not that it apparently mattered, because Grindelwald just _took_ what he wanted - he was meant to make him think he liked it. No matter how sudden it had been, he was meant to respond immediately and beautifully, and so he did just that.

If he had Grindelwald wrapped around his little finger, he held the key to freedom right  in his hand. Surging forward, Percival pressed his lips against Grindelwald's, hotly trying to reciprocate.

Grindelwald went very still above him. Hesitantly, Percival pulled back only to slowly trace the seam of Grindelwald’s mouth with the tip of his tongue. He made a low, appreciative sound like the man’s lips were the best thing he’d ever tasted, and then he opened his eyes. _Too much?_ Grindelwald was looking down at him, seemingly struck speechless; and Percival managed a small smile.

 _Gotcha_. “What happened?” he asked, concern filtering through his voice. “I thought you dead! You could have warned me!”  

“I… apologize.“ Grindelwald stepped back, and his words left Percival’s mouth agape.

Grindelwald, _apologizing?!_ Was he dreaming? Had he been spelled? What was this?

The wizard’s eyes flickered between Percival's own, as though he was searching for something - perhaps the evidence of Graves’ honesty in his reciprocating the kiss. Then he said, “There's been another attack.”

Percival’s heart sank. He struggled to keep his voice composed as he bit. “An attack?”

“Yes.” Grindelwald was shrugging off his jacket, and Percival’s eyes drifted to his own wand as it was tucked in the man’s belt. “An unknown magical force, wreaking havoc in the city for the past month. I was stuck at the office, dealing with the aftermath of the last blow. I hardly slept.”

Right.  

“And how long has this been going on?”

“A little bit more than a month since I met you.” _Since you captured me, you utter bastard, don’t twist the truth._ Grindelwald was rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, and Percival tried to think past the sheer gripping panic in his gut, clawing its way up his throat with ravaging talons. New York city was in danger, his people were in danger, _MACUSA_ was in danger - and here he was, getting spoiled by his enemy. He swallowed, his voice cracking.

“How… How bad is it?”

Grindelwald snorted. “I proclaimed we had it under control in front of the press. It is nothing you need to worry about.”

Graves saw red. His next words were clipped, half-strangled by sudden rage. “You've... proclaimed - I don't give a _damn_ what you've proclaimed ! What have you done?! _Nothing to worry about?_ You’ve got you and - your minions out there, mingling with my people and wrecking _my_ city. How do I know these attacks aren’t your doing?” Percival stepped back, baring his teeth because it made perfect sense. “You’re hell in a handbasket, and this all suits you right, doesn’t it? Panic in the city, in the government, I bet all you did was twiddle your thumbs and look pretty while they tried to do some damage control - am I wrong?!” He hisses. “Am I wrong, you murdering bastard?”

This was grasping at straws at its finest; Graves had no idea what the attacks were actually _about,_ and he doubted Grindelwald would look as wrecked as he currently felt if they were his fault. But he was _losing it,_ his rage wiping all sense of fear and all recollection of 'his plan' from his mind. He was helpless - he should have just fucking tried harder to do something to escape, to go back where he belonged. He could do something right now, just stab Grindelwald in the eyes with his fingers and run to the door once he was down.

Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed at him with impatience, and Percival only made good on his thoughts and pushed him away violently with both hands on his chest. That took a grunt out of him. Graves was fuming.

“What did you do? Tell me! Did anyone die?” _Oh God, what if someone had?_ One of his aurors - he remembered each of their faces, passing in front of his eyes in rapid succession - _Johnson, Cowell, Kinney_ \- they couldn’t be dead, they were unstoppable -

“What's gotten into you? I did your job,” Grindelwald spat, brushing off his suit - as though Graves’ touch had stained him. “Now will you be reasonable and calm down?”

“NO!” Graves roared, out of control, and Grindelwald shook his head.

“Pity, darling.”

Grindelwald leveled his wand at Graves’ face, and his prisoner recoiled as if slapped.

“No,” he repeated despite the sizzling fear - jaw still set with anger. His glare was murderous as Grindelwald approached until he was mere inches from Percival’s face.

“I did nothing,” he said softly, “but protect the city you hold so dear. None of your people have been affected by this, you have my word. I have tried for the past month to find the culprit behind these attacks, and this is how you repay me? You are  _nothing_ without me holding you down.”

Graves bit the inside of his mouth, fists clenching. He ached to punch Grindelwald square in the jaw, but something held him back. He needed answers, and he couldn’t get them if he was lying in a puddle of his own blood, could he. Answers, answers, how could he -

“The New York Ghost.”

Grindelwald lifted a brow, still holding Graves at wand point. “I beg your pardon?”

“Listen carefully,” Graves said, “because I won’t say it twice. Bring me the New York Ghost. I will pay whatever price I have to pay to get my hands on a newspaper, since you’re so tight-lipped about everythi -”

Grindelwald silenced him with a furious glare, and Percival’s voice withered and died. He shrunk in on himself as Grindelwald stepped impossibly closer, this close to crushing him against the goddamn wall. His wand dug into Percival’s throat, and fuck, fuck, _fuck -_

“I have been nothing but honest with you since the beginning of this relationship,” he hissed. “Believe me when I say nobody died. You needn’t concern your pretty, empty little head with these matters.”

_What...what the hell?_

A relationship? Was that what Grindelwald called keeping Graves as his prisoner and kissing him from times to times, the only money Graves had to obtain basic necessities and survive? And - “My fucking _what_ now?!” Graves sputtered. _Empty little head._ He didn’t know if it was possible to choke on helpless fury, but he was certainly doing a great job so far. His blood was pounding in his ears, his world narrowing down to Grindelwald’s cold eyes in front of him - looking _down_ at him like he was an interesting but ultimately boring little thing, and not a human being. “What the hell’s your problem?” Ah, Grindelwald didn’t like that. His lips curled in a parody of a smile that made Graves’ insides churn, but he couldn’t stop. “You don’t get to dictate what I think!”

“Enough,” Grindelwald interrupted, and the tip of his wand burned Graves’ skin. He cried out and fell on his knees. Grindelwald gripped him by the hair and yanked, and walked - _dragging_ Percival wherever he wanted. Like he weighed nothing, and Graves thought of a hundred cases of domestic abuse cases as he struggled and tried to get Grindelwald to let go. All that came out of his mouth was a gust of breath, and his tongue moved but he couldn’t say anything.

He’d been silenced.

Silenced, handcuffed, and made weak, and Percival’s heart sank because he knew exactly the direction Grindelwald was taking, and it was the bedroom. His bedroom.

He was fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, this chapter was a pleasure to work on. I have a chunk of the next written out already, and this fic is taking bigger proportions than I ever intended - it was meant to be just porn, damn it, how did it end up like this - but it's so much fun ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
> 
> Thank you for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments on the last chapter. I have to admit I felt surprised when people asked me when I would update this. If you _are_ out there, reading and enjoying this fic, please let me know! Your comments make a difference in me wanting to keep working on this or not. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> EDIT : i revised my outline and I am so, so excited for the next chapter. omg. :'D


	4. Staying the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re falling, Graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello ! 
> 
> Thank you guys for the support. I have read this chapter so many times I have no clue what to think of it anymore. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Un-betaed, all mistakes are mine. Constructive criticism is welcome - I've been trying my hand at writing original fiction as my goal is to be a writer, and I find it extremely difficult as self-doubt increases per a hundred. If you have any word of encouragement for me I'd appreciate them too :) 
> 
> That being said, enjoy the mindfuck, and take a look at the updated tags before that. 
> 
> Thank you !

Metaphorically or literally remained to be seen, but given his new appearance and Grindelwald’s anger, he did not hold out much hope for his integrity. So much so for thinking of a plan, but he couldn’t exactly be expected to smile and bat his eyelashes when Grindelwald vanished for days, then brought back the news that his city was in danger due to a series of attacks of an _—_ as-of-yet _—_ unknown cause. Attacks that he, Percival Graves, was meant to stop and prevent. It was his duty, his job, his fucking purpose. One he currently couldn't fulfill because, oh, yes! He was a prisoner in his own home to a madman and no one noticed.

The situation was killing him.

So, yeah. He was fucked. He dreaded the possibility of torture _—_ not again, not after all this _—_ but if Grindelwald meant to beat him to a pulp, he would have taken him down to the basement. The bedroom indicated something else, and Percival prayed to heaven that the man would at least use oil to ease the way. He’d never been buggered by a man before. He'd never had the opportunity to go that far with Theseus, and the very few partners he'd had after him had always wanted him to do the fucking. But he knew the basics, and he knew it’d hurt like a bitch if Grindelwald was careless. Percival trusted him with this as far as he could throw him. No, he needed an escape plan.

Think of a plan, think of a plan. The rough carpet of the corridor rubbing against his bare skin was _not_ nice. He would have burns. He vowed then and there to replace it with something softer and nicer, if he ever survived and had other plans to, you know. Get dragged through his entire apartment, lifted up, and thrown onto his bed by Grindelwald like he was a potato sack. Just an average day in the life of the mighty Percival Graves. He wanted to weep.

“You’ve been utterly insufferable as of late,” Grindelwald said as chains appeared and slithered from the sides of the bed towards him. Graves tried to escape, but to no avail: they wrapped around his arms and legs, keeping him tied down, his back to the mattress. He felt incredibly vulnerable lying there in nothing but his bathrobe, more so since his struggles had tugged it lose. He was practically naked. “I did not even get a chance to properly appreciate you.”

Fuck that did not bode well. Not well at all, and now he was sweating buckets and writhing against his bonds. “Hey, hey, hey, wait, hang on _—_ ”

“I will give you your newspaper,” Grindelwald continued the conversation as though Graves wasn’t braced for slaughter. “I feel too exhausted to argue. In exchange, I want you to lie with me.”

 _Oh, no, no, no. No way!_ Go fuck yourself, Graves wanted to say, but all he could do was heave in quick breaths. Hell no. For God’s sake, he’d never been fucked, and he wasn’t about to let a genocidal maniac do this to him. Let him keep the least bit of dignity he had intact. _Help!_

Grindelwald climbed on the bed. Graves couldn’t see any hint of lube anywhere, there was nowhere to hide, and he didn't bother to conceal the terror in his eyes _—_ not when he was this close to being raped. To hell with his plan, it was doomed to fail, he couldn’t do this, but it seemed Grindelwald would have him no matter what he thought or said. What he himself wanted had stopped to matter a long time ago. He understood that now.

“Please,” he said, his voice faint and small _—_ as small as he felt, pinned there with Grindelwald above him, so easily in control. He was supposed to be better than this.

The other man lied down next to him. One snap of his fingers, and Graves squeezed his eyes shut as their clothes vanished, leaving him trembling, cold, and bare on the bed. Oh, mercy, he had Grindelwald naked next to him. Another snap and the heavy blanket slipped from under their backs, to then cover them both.

Percival blinked. It felt heavy, warm, comfortable. It shouldn't have. What was happening? Next to him, Grindelwald sighed contentedly.

Incredulous, disbelieving, shocked, Graves could only watch as the dark wizard draped himself over Graves, until his head rested on Graves’ chest and his right hand possessively over Graves’ stomach. The man shifted closer, until he seemed to finally find a comfortable position, and then he relaxed. Graves held his breath...

Minutes later, he heard a snore, and all the tension left his body _—_ the drop so unexpected it left him utterly dizzy.

He… He was alright. How was he alright? Grindelwald hadn’t… But he thought he would…

Graves risked a glance down at the sleeping man. Grindelwald was using him... as a _pillow._ By now Graves was used to not understanding the man, but this just took the piss.

He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep, shaky breath. He still felt right on the edge of panic, his chest squeezing tight with the possibility of _what could have happened._ Grindelwald felt like a furnace next to him, warming him up. It was cozy in the strangest, most skin-crawling way, and Graves shuddered. Grindelwald was… cuddling him.

Screw all the rest, this was definitely the weirdest thing to ever happen to him in his life. Cuddled by a criminal. The thought should have been terrifying, revolting, but right now Graves only felt so overwhelmingly tired that he couldn’t care. He had been braced for rape, ready to withstand atrocious pain, ready to _—_ pride be damned _—_ plea and bargain until Grindelwald was a bit, if not lenient, then at least gentle. He had not in any way been prepared for this. This was so casual it felt surreal.

Grindelwald must have been really tired, to forego Graves’ rage and take comfort from him instead. Not sex _—_ comfort. Mind reeling, Graves recalled the other man’s words, an affirmation that sounded sure from his mouth : ‘I have been nothing but honest with you since the beginning of this relationship’.

Percival shifted, uncomfortable. Grindelwald moved against him with a little noise of protest, and Graves’ unease increased tenfold. Uh. How was this his life again?

Stupidly, he wished that his hands were free so he could at least wrap his arms around the other man and go to sleep _—_ _NO!_ He cursed lowly. Fuck that! Grindelwald’s presence was messing with his mind again. Or perhaps it was simply a bloody instinctive, biological, _human_ reaction to having someone else this close to him. It had been years since he’d been in any kind of intimate relationship with anyone. That, added to the fact that he’d spent three days without seeing or hearing from anybody, kept in the dark and cold, even driven to fearing that he’d never see Grindelwald again, meant that he was more than a little amenable to seeking some comfort and body warmth himself, even if it came from his nemesis.

The fact that this was Grindelwald could be irrelevant for a couple minutes. He’d feared the man would never come home, but only because he cared about saving his own hide. He did not give a shit about Grindelwald as a person, the thought was outrageous. He could go die. He did not care the same way Grindelwald, currently sleeping on him, didn’t care when he’d tortured Percival to get information and then proceeded to play with his mind and his body to his liking. He did not care, because he had to use Grindelwald in order to get free; he could not care, even if the man’s words made Percival’s heart twist with uncertainty.

What if Grindelwald was so deep inside his own delusions that Percival’s eventual betrayal would just…break him? Make him even more dangerous? Was if Percival was the last thinning thread that stood between his political ambitions and sheer insanity? Could he bear that weight, wondering daily if he was meant to play Grindelwald’s game against his will if only it would save lives?

He shivered and pulled at his restraints again. Fuck compassion, this was not the time to feel sorry for someone else, especially not his captor. He had a migraine.

Breathing deeply, he allowed himself not to think, just for a minute. There was another man’s body against his. Christ, how long had he been held like this? Granted, the picture was a bit tainted by the fact that he was still tied up, but the restraints were light. He barely felt them against his skin. They would become more unbearable and painful overnight, but for now Graves could focus on something else, and that something else was the sense of touch. He was acutely aware of Grindelwald's presence, his entire being attuned to the man's every breath. How was he so warm? Percival suddenly wanted to nuzzle him, breathe in his scent.

 _Bugger, buggering fuck._ Not for the first time, he thought that he was thoroughly, deeply, truly lost. Grindelwald had done a number on him already. Perhaps the two of them actually were in a relationship of sorts, and Graves had simply forgotten it. Perhaps he never had been Director Graves at all. Perhaps nothing he ever believed was true. He believed Grindelwald had wreaked destruction on his city, he’d believed the man meant to hurt him, but he… he hadn’t. Graves seemed to have misjudged him greatly. Grindelwald never meant to hurt him, but Graves had thought he did because that was what he’d been led to believe _—_ that the man next to him was a monster.

He shook his head to clear it. God, he was so tired.

Grindelwald had said that he was protecting the city. Of course he would do so, Graves reasoned, if he wanted to maintain his cover. Now that he thought of it, it had been incredibly mindless of him to suggest Grindelwald was behind the attacks _—_ whatever they were. He frowned. Except no, it was not. Gellert Grindelwald, he knew, had brought chaos into countless countries already. Chaos only served him.

Germany was down, he knew. And from there Grindelwald had moved: the nearby countries were affected, the UK was on its guard, and France had been present _en masse_ at their last international meeting. And then the US. The fallen director gnawed on his lips as the familiar, devouring guilt made itself known.

Failure, failure, failure. He was a failure of a man, barely fit to serve as anything more than Grindelwald’s plaything. They had a wolf in their den.

A wolf who seemed to like him for some reason.

A wolf, Graves reiterated, who was currently snuggling him.

“For fuck’s sake,” Graves snapped, lifting his upper body off the bed slightly to shake Grindelwald off. “Get off. Act like the devil you are.”

Grindelwald’s hand only tightened on his stomach. Graves’ mouth went dry as he was suddenly reminded of all the pain that hand could inflict upon him, and he laid back down. “Actually, nevermind. Go back to sleep.”

Grindelwald _chuckled._ Percival closed his eyes and willed it all to be a fucking nightmare.

He said nothing more, and, after a long time spent staring at the ceiling as Grindelwald’s breaths grew even, deep, and spaced out, he ended up falling asleep as well.

(#)

At first Percival wasn't sure what woke him. He felt buoyant, his body melting into the embrace of the man behind him. There were lips at his neck, placing featherlight kisses on his skin. It sent pleasant shivers down his spine.

His cock stirred with interest, and he pressed his body back against his lover. His reward was the man’s hold tightening around him. Percival hummed _—_ he loved the possessiveness of the gesture, the almost painful grip the man had on him. His thoughts slipped away as the man started rocking his hips forward, dragging his cock up the cleft of Percival's ass, before slotting it in the space between his thighs. He gently nipped at Percival's neck, who smiled contentedly.

He squeezed his thighs together to make it tighter, and his lover groaned in appreciation, pinching Percival’s nipples between two fingers in response. The heat flared _—_ he’d always been weak for _this_ , yes… He arched his back as the man thrust slowly. It was easy to imagine that he was inside Percival instead, a long, thick cock filling him, taking him, and making him lose his mind.

The hands stroked Percival’s chest, one flattening against his hip to hold on as the man’s breathing grew ragged and his shoves more brutal. Percival lifted his hand to his mouth, licking his palm before wrapping it around his own, smaller cock, jerking himself off in time with the man’s thrusts, thinking about nothing but the pleasure racing through his veins, quickly edging towards completion. He came when the man bit at a sensitive spot on his neck that made his entire body jerk, moaned as bliss filled his mind, and the man followed shortly after, hugging Percival’s body close. Come streaked the bed sheets and Percival’s thighs. The man kept rolling his hips, milking his cock until he was done.

“Vielen Dank, meine kleine Schlampe.”

And just like that the spell broke. Gradually, the elation faded. Percival became aware that he was cold, that his breath was rank, that the room reeked of sex. Come was drying on his skin, gross to the touch. He shivered and broke away from the other man’s embrace, twisting so he could face him. He saw a body toppled in scars, a lazy smile, cold eyes and pale hair.

He was in Grindelwald’s bed. The world came crashing down.

“Get out.”

He said the words softly, almost pleadingly if not for the hard, icy edge they held. “Out.”

Grindelwald’s face crumpled.

“Darling _—_ ”

“OUT!” Percival snarled, emotions jumbling all over the place as he tried to come to terms with what just happened to him, what he _allowed_ to happen. He was positively brimming with fury, tired, tired, _tired_ of not being _himself,_ of not _feeling_ like himself, tired of being _played with._ Tired of this, too _—_ the comfort and lovingness warping to anger and disgust. “Out, out, out! This is my house!”

Grindelwald looked almost scared by his outburst, holding his hands up placatingly and catching Graves’ arms when the man tried to push him down the bed. He felt for his magic, crackling and twisting in his veins and eternally crashing against the fucking manacles around his wrists and ankles. Pushed down, locked away, made insignificant; he was tired, he’d had _enough._

“Out,” he hissed, hatred burning through his whole body, his mind ablaze. “Get the fuck out of my _home.”_

Grindelwald flinched as if physically struck; and time stood still as they stared at each other, Graves with his bared teeth and trembling limbs, Grindelwald wide-eyed and lost. Something in him must give, for in the end he released Graves’ arms, and Percival fixed him with a look of venomous hatred as the man slowly retreated from the bed. His movements were calm, like drizzle before a storm, as though he held back on words he dearly wanted to say. Percival couldn’t be arsed to care what he wanted. He needed Grindelwald out of his sight, out of his life, out of his head. He’d never felt so vulnerable.

When Grindelwald was dressed _—_ wearing Percival’s clothes, of course _—_ he hesitated. Graves’ glare turned positively murderous, and for lack of a better thing to use he hurled a pillow at Grindelwald’s head. Grindelwald ducked it, but it seemed to get the message across.

“I will come see you tonight,” Grindelwald said, soft and apologetic. The tone didn’t suit him. Graves wished he’d stop trying to be kind. “And, Percival _—_ whatever it is that I did to make you mad…Know that I am sorry.”

Percival choked on the word, biting on his tongue until he tasted blood. _“Out.”_

Grindelwald obeyed. Reluctant and slow, he risked looking back at Percival, only to find the man staring at him so viciously that he had no choice but to hasten his departure. Graves glared at his retreating form until Grindelwald was finally in the corridor, far away from him, and he contemplated what to do when shock seized him. Electricity ran through him, a jolt making his limbs lock up and his eyes roll back, and the world went dark.

(#)

He woke feeling pleasantly warm. There was an ache in his empty belly, now an old, familiar friend; Percival squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to remain asleep, if only so he could stay warm for a little while longer. He knew not what awaited him out there _—_ or he did, too clearly, and he would very much like to avoid actually living it for as long as he could. But reality, as unpleasant as it was, had a way to make itself known, and this time it was the lack of a weight encircling his ankles and wrists that had him fully awake in a blink.

 _Shit._ Percival rolled each limb carefully, grateful for the lack of injuries given his _—_ he winced _—_ admittedly understandable lashing out yesterday. At least he thought it was yesterday, but he could never be sure; not here, not with Grindelwald keeping him in his place. Percival rubbed the skin of his ankle and grimaced. The skin was bruised, that was for sure, it hurt when he pressed down, but otherwise he didn’t seem injured. There was the familiar, faint gurgle of water in the room, something he’d heard for so long in the past days that he understood he must be back in his cell. Sighing, Percival gripped the blanket above his head and wrapped it tightly around himself, burrowing deeper in the temporary nest in the hopes that he could stay oblivious just a little while longer. Grindelwald might already be in the room, knowing he was awake and just waiting for him to open his eyes; well Graves wouldn’t give him that pleasure. He was fine where he was, thank you, and the world could keep on spinning without him, since it had been doing so well so far, yeah? Not like he was fucking needed.

_You’re falling, Graves._

Huffing, Percival threw the covers off of him and blinked hard at the ceiling, only to reassess how he felt. Trapped, with the impression that said ceiling loomed much closer than it used to. He sat up slowly, patting the covers around him just to get a leverage on his bearings. It felt familiar, and he bent down to smell it with a frown. That was his old blanket, the heavy one, the one Grindelwald let him take with him in the cellar. The fact that as per usual, he couldn’t see shit also strengthened his belief that he was indeed back in his little prison, and further perusal let him hear the faint gurgle of the water he had gotten acquainted with during his stay alone in this room. The little fountain Grindelwald set up was still working, then, so he was back where Grindelwald thought he belonged, but why did it feel so... wrong?

Percival remained unmoving, attempting to distinguish anything through the darkness surrounding him even as his eyes got acquainted with the low, flickering green light emitted by the fountain. It was not much, but after a minute or two he noticed two irregular shapes not much further than his feet, like rods or wobbly sticks stretching towards the ceiling, and in confusion he realized these must be the bedpost if he had a bed... which he couldn’t rightfully have. He knew Grindelwald and him shared a moment of _—_ of _intimacy_ , but surely it wouldn’t be enough to earn him something as luxurious as a bed. It didn’t make sense, especially not after Percival rejected him so violently.

Feeling once more as though his sense of the world was slipping from his fingers like grains of sand, Percival slowly swung his legs off the side of the bed and got up. The floor was achingly cold beneath his feet, and he shivered at the sensation, wishing regretfully that he’d stayed in bed a little bit longer; as it was all he could do was grit his teeth and progress, trying to get a more complete perception of the room. He had no doubts now that the unease he felt before was due to the magic still permeating the air, a necessary force behind transforming his cellar so fully into something else _—_ that something else being, he came to the conclusion the longer he looked around him, an actual, large and comfortable bedroom.

Almost as if on cue, following his thoughts, two orbs of light flared to life above him. Percival startled so badly he tripped and almost fell backwards on his ass like a bumbling idiot, and when he caught himself he hissed a curse at Grindelwald, uncaring whether the man could hear him or not. If he could, then surely Percival was a most amusing spectacle for him.

The orbs of light shimmered, illuminating the room with a glow similar to that of a strong fire, and in their light Percival could finally take a proper look at his new living quarters. The setting was much the same as his bedroom, he reflected, even if the space was much smaller. He focused on that in order not to fall again, because his mind was reeling with a thousand questions he didn’t have the answer to, and it was too much to take in at once.

There was the bed, behind him _—_ a four poster bed, with what looked like luxurious, expensive bedding worthy of what he used to sleep in; on Percival’s left, there was a table and a chair, complete with an inkwell, a feather and pieces of paper, as if Graves suddenly had the liberty to reach out to the outside. Furthest from him and against the opposite wall, there was a cabinet containing a couple of books. Eyes wide, Percival padded inside the room further, and nearly crawled out of his skin when his feet touched something soft and plush - a carpet. There was a carpet in the center of the room, and a bed behind him, and a cabinet and an office desk to his left, and a fountain to his right set in the corner, and _—_ were those _toilets?!_ Awesome, bloody brilliant, he had toilets inside his _cell,_ and _—_ Percival wheeled around sharply _—_ toilets but _no more stairs._

He paled, throat going dry, but the lights were enough that he could see and there was no doubt about it. He could still see the door, light filtering through it, but the space where the stairs leading from his house to the cellar used to be was all but empty, leaving more room for his new, alarmingly huge bed. He had no means to escape. It’s like he’d been tossed in a hole, pretty though it may be, and Percival got the absurd thought that he was like one of those pretty dolls little girls played with, setting them up in dollhouses to their liking. How was this any different?

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said faintly, and promptly passed out.

(#)

He woke up being carried by someone, and he peered through his eyelashes at the moving world around him, deeming it not safe. Whoever held him was strong, and smelt good, and Percival clumsily reached out to clutch their shirt tightly, burrowing his head against their chest. They didn’t talk but he could almost hear them smile, and he made a sleepy noise of contentment as he let himself be taken away.

The actual wakening was rather brutal. His fuzzy, sleepy mind cleared instantly the moment the arms left him, and Percival felt himself fall unceremoniously down until his back hit something cool and his body bounced slightly on it. He snapped his head to the side, recognizing the leathery smoothness of his own sofa; and then a hand grabbed his jaw, and Percival was forced to look back at a face he knew and despised all too well. Grindelwald was gentle yet firm, sitting next to Graves on a stool, and he said, “Open your mouth.”

 _What the fuck for,_ was the first thing he wanted to say, followed closely by _Go fuck yourself sir_ but he said neither of them. He remarked a steaming broth, floating in the air next to Grindelwald, and the smell made his mouth water. Following his gaze, Grindelwald released him to cup the bowl in both hands, and he placed it gently on Percival’s lap. “Eat.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. Percival drank the soup greedily, clumsily, unable to bring himself to care when it finally filled the emptiness inside his stomach. He licked his lips when he was done, and all the while Grindelwald remained there, watching him. When the bowl was empty the wizard took it back, and he placed his hand on the back of Graves’ neck, holding him firmly in place as he wiped Percival’s lips and chin with a napkin as though he was a toddler. The humiliation and the shame made Percival shrink on himself as his cheeks heated up furiously, but he did not dare lash out again, too grateful for once to actually be aware of what was being done to him _—_ even if it was being cared for like a little boy or an invalid.

That done, Grindelwald vanished both items, and Percival finally dared meet his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” Grindelwald asked gruffly.

_Thoroughly violated, thanks for being concerned._

“Better?”

Percival nodded once.

“Good. There's yesterday's edition of the New York Ghost on the table,” Grindelwald informed him as he rose up, and a glance at the low table behind him showed Percival the veracity of his words. “Just like I promised you. Feel free to look at it while I eat. You’ll be alone for the whole day once I’m gone _—_ duty calls, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Graves said with difficulty, and Grindelwald smiled down at him.

“Take your time.”

He made a move to retreat, but Percival stopped him, reaching out to catch the man's sleeve.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait, wait, please. Grindelwald _—_ sir _—_ _Gellert,”_ and it felt wrong to call him by his first name as though they were old pals, but Percival supposed by now they were past that point, “We need to talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess what he wants to talk about?


	5. Losing Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ll behave. I promise. I’ll be good for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED to be writing and updating this again, holy shit.

“Do we?” Grindelwald asks politely. “What about, darling?”

Graves shivers at the pet name. It still feels so fucking wrong. He’s not supposed to be… diminished, like this. _Darling—_  it's a word meant for young, pretty women, who giggle and blush when a man pays them attention. It’s not meant for him : the youngest Director of Magical Security who ever lived, the Auror with the most arrests under his belt and a reputation which precedes him to the other side of the sea.

He’s no darling, and he’s certainly not Grindelwald’s.

“You’ve been changing me. Turning me into something _—_ someone _—_ I’m not. I know you will not stop, not until I… ” Graves falters and casts his eyes downwards, forcing himself to spit out the words, “Not until I’m completely yours.”

Bloody hell. Saying it out loud makes him realize how fucking terrifying that prospect is. But he knows he's right. Any time he tries to regain control, it crumbles to dust. Grindelwald's been ruining him. Soon he won’t belong to himself, he won’t be himself anymore, and worse _—_ perhaps he won’t even remember who he was. The person he used to be before Grindelwald took him away.

He's so _—_ fucking _—_ scared. He tightens his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ he’s so screwed.

Grindelwald’s smile grows. “So you’re not as stupid as you look, little doll.”

Graves closes his eyes, suppressing a shiver of disgust. “I’m losing time. I’m losing memories of you, of what you’re doing to me. I wake up changed, feeling confused and nauseous, and I can never be sure that anything I said or did has ever been of my own volition. You use a spell sometimes,” he accuses, glaring at Grindelwald, “and I don’t know what it is _—_ but it makes me feel _—_ good. Safe. With you.” He looks away. “Loved, even.”

And it was a terrible, cruel feeling. One Percival hated simply because it wasn't true. It felt so easy to let himself get caught up in it, to forget Grindelwald ever meant him any harm. He’d never known anything like what Grindelwald forcefully made him feel. But the warmth, the joy, the love and all the rest _—_ being cared for, being provided for, watched over, protected _—_ it was all a lie. When Percival looked at the facts, the list of everything Grindelwald had ever said, done, or how he behaved, drew a chilling portrait of his abuser. All of it screamed that Percival ought to get out of his grasp, to run as fast as he could, to get away and never look back.

But when they were together _—_ when they were _together_ , it was remarkably easy to forget all this. Percival could just be. When Grindelwald used this spell of his that made Percival go all pliant, soft as a ragdoll in his arms, he could just allow himself to feel. He didn't have to think or to worry. These were the only moments he felt truly at peace, and he had to let them go for the sake of his own sanity.

None of the emotions he felt when he was left alone, or when he came down from one of those Grindelwald-induced highs, were good. But he knew that they were real. At least they were his _own_. Anger, confusion, terror, exhaustion, horror, not to bloody mention the constant physical pain he was in.

His stomach, though settled now, still twisted and churned as it tried to digest the soup Grindelwald had fed him with after hours without food. Because just like that, the man could choose to deprive him of vital necessities like food, water or sleep.

Grindelwald was sick, and Percival well on his way to being so. However, if he could retain just one sliver of control back… If he could convince Grindelwald to stop using the spell… At least he’d be himself for a little while longer. Even though his physical appearance was already altered; even though it’d probably take months, if not years, to recover from what Grindelwald had done to him, if he ever escaped the man at all _—_ he had to try his chance. He had to ask.

“I don’t know what spell you’re using,” he said quietly. “I understand, however, why you’re using it. And I’m not asking you to stop what you’re doing. I’ve already changed _—_ you made sure of that. But I’d like you to stop pulling me under each time you plan on doing something to me. I want to be aware. I want all of my reactions, the good,” and here he thought of their morning together, how Grindelwald had pleased him with his hand, how Graves had moaned at how fucking good it felt, “as well as the bad. I want everything to be my own.

“Each time I wake up, after you used it, it feels like someone stabbed me in the chest and twisted the fucking burning knife. The pleasure turns into pain. The peacefulness into rage. I can't be happy with you like this. And I can’t go on living like this much longer. You can’t keep doing this to me, not if you wish to keep me.”

Grindelwald seems to consider that for a moment. He rises up and starts pacing the room in front of Percival, who shifts to a sitting position on the sofa to watch him.

“I understand,” Grindelwald says finally. “But my darling, what guarantee do I have that you’ll behave if I do as you say? You’ve fought me tooth and nails every time I’ve tried to please you, when everything I’ve done so far has been for your happiness. I’m only helping you come to terms with your real place in this world.”

“And what place is that?” Graves asks carefully.

Grindelwald’s response washes over him and he feels strangely empty. “You’re mine. That’s all you are.”

He nods. “I’ll behave. I promise. I’ll be good for you, Gellert.”

“Prove it, my darling. Prove it, or I shall use the spell and there will never be one single clear-headed thought again in that pretty little head of yours.” Gellert’s smile is cruel and cold. “Do I make myself clear?”

Graves stares at him and wishes he would just _burn_. “Yes, Gellert.”

“Good girl. Finish your soup and go to sleep, darling.”

Graves does as he’s told. When he’s done, Grindelwald brings him back to his cell, guiding Graves with a controlling hand on the nape of his neck. The basement door closes behind him as the orbs of lights flare to life in the center of the room.

Graves looks back at the door, and with perfect, heartstopping certainty he thinks _—_ _If I am not careful I will spend the rest of my days trapped here._

He has never been more sure that he was right about anything in his life.

The thought haunts him long after he’s gone to bed _—_ sleeping to seek oblivion is the best thing there is to do while waiting for Grindelwald to come home and abuse him _—_ and he knows he’d rather die than to let this happen.

But Grindelwald would not let him die.

No matter how much Percival would wish or beg for it. It's not his decision to make, not anymore. His life is not his own. His body is not his own. His _mind_ is not his own.

He has nothing.

Nothing but his head, his heart, his damaged soul and his broken body, and it will have to be enough.

God, he’s not fine. He’s never been so far from it.

The tears come silently, and Percival Graves cries until he falls asleep _—_ wishing he’d never wake up.

* * *

 

Grindelwald wakes him early the next morning. He lets Percival use the bathroom, tells him to get cleaned up thoroughly. Percival obeys without questions. If he protests, Grindelwald might change his mind, and that's the last thing Percival wants. The clothes Grindelwald gives him barely cover anything at all. As Graves stares at himself in the mirror, he notices the shirt he wears is see-through, like some of the most indecent flapper dresses he’s seen. There’s a white ribbon to tie his hair with, and, a pair of soft, cream-colored cotton pants, too large for him. They make him feel as though the slightest tug on the belt will expose him. He thinks that maybe it's exactly the effect Grindelwald is looking for.

When all is said and all is done, he feels like a child wearing his father’s clothes. He who always prided himself on taking utmost care of his outer appearance feels like a clown. He swallows back the bitterness and reminds himself that he has to go through with anything Grindelwald wants, lest his very conscience be lost. He’s got no doubts Grindelwald would not hesitate to go through with what he threatened to do should Percival not behave appropriately.

It’s only clothes. He shouldn’t be so upset about _clothes,_ nor mortified. Yet when he presents himself in front of Grindelwald, who greets him with a lazy smile and a critical once-over, that’s exactly how he feels.

“You’re swimming in those,” Grindelwald says, pointing at the pants Graves wears. “Not exactly the best look on you.”

“You gave me those clothes,” Percival points out.

“And I’m starting to regret it. Take it off.”

Graves freezes.

“Now, Percival,” Gellert says softly. “You don’t want to make me upset, do you?”

Fuck. No. Fuck no, that’s the last thing Percival wants, and although his entire being recoils at the thought of exposing himself to Grindelwald, he goes through with it and drops the pants. Grindelwald vanishes them and gives Percival’s lower, naked body a glance of approval. “Much better. What a cute little cock you have, darling. Sit.”

Percival's face burns with humiliation. He sits, trying not to gasp at the cool feeling of wood under his bare bottom.

There’s Percival wand on the table, just to Grindelwald’s right. Just within his reach if Percival were to try to catch it. He can’t help but stare at it, calculating all the ways in which he could make a go for it, and all the ways it could turn wrong. Grindelwald sees him watching and chuckles.

Graves crosses his hand over his lap to cover his dignity and chases the thoughts away. Fucking Grindelwald. He swears as soon as he’s free he’ll get his hands on the bastard and show him what a real good time looks like.

“I brought you your newspaper,” Grindelwald says as he grabs the ebony wand and summons a cup of coffee for Percival, as well as a croissant. Where Grindelwald got it from, Graves doesn’t fucking know. Did he go shopping, hoping pastries would make Percival happy?

He doesn't even like croissants. He still takes it, to please Grindelwald. “Oh?”

“Yesterday’s edition of the New York Ghost. It’s in your room. See how I keep my promises?”

Graves forces a smile on his face. He is sure it looks more like a grimace, but Grindelwald doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s wonderful. I’ll read it after breakfast. Thank you, Gellert.”

“You’re welcome, doll.”

 _Jesus Christ._ What sort of hell has he fallen into?

Graves eats the rest of his breakfast in silence, trying to go as slowly as he can to show Grindelwald he… appreciates the pleasure of his company. He scalds himself on his coffee when Grindelwald mentions the weather of all things, as though this was just another normal morning in the Graves household. As though this was how things had always been. A perfect scene of domesticity. It makes Graves feel sick. He thinks his face is going to fall off with the number of grimaces he throws Grindelwald’s way.

The other man finishes his breakfast. It takes no longer than five minutes for him to undo the table and clean the dishes, after which he claims Graves will soon be the one to do it. He also says that the house is spelled to apparate him straight back to his cell an hour after breakfast, more than enough time for him to put the kitchen in order.

Like a perfect little housewife.

Graves is choking on his own venom.

“Don’t I get a kiss?” Grindelwald says, just as he’s about to leave. Percival, who’d been putting the clean dishes away in the kitchen, stiffens. He stares straight ahead and forces himself to take a deep breath, before turning around slowly.

Grindelwald is right up in his personal space, standing _—_ no, _looming—_ so close to him. Percival’s heart skips a beat, and his hands scramble behind him to find purchase on the counter as Grindelwald steps closer.

He touches him. Presses his hands against either side of Percival’s thin waist and squeezes. They seem impossibly large in contrast to him. Graves can’t remember a time where he himself was so big.

“God, I could just eat you up,” Grindelwald murmurs huskily. There’s a blur and then Percival is staring in mute horror at his own face, dark brown eyes taking his figure in.

He doesn’t know where he begins and Grindelwald ends.

“I love you. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Graves bites back a whimper and flinches as Grindelwald goes in for the kiss. He turns his head away _—_ he can’t _help it._ He knows he shouldn’t do this, that he has to keep up the act, that he has to please Grindelwald but at this particular point in time he can’t remember why that’s so important. He is revulsed. Every single nerve in his body is screaming at him to run.

Graves squeezes his eyes shut not to see his own face and lets Grindelwald press a gentle kiss to his eyelids.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

But he has to.

Trembling, he tilts his head up to ask for a real kiss. Grindelwald gives it to him, so soft and warm _—_ just a simple press of lips against his own. Percival’s eyes flutter open to find Grindelwald _—_ looking like himself, thank God _—_ smiling at him with joy. The wizard takes his hands and brings them to his lips, kissing them reverently while Percival tentatively smiles back. His hands are shaking in Grindelwald's hold.

But _—_ once again, he finds he feels nothing at all. The feeling is disturbing, but it’s better than disgust or the constant terror he’s been plagued with.

He accepts it.

“Have a good day at work,” Percival whispers. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Grindelwald’s eyes wrinkle at the corners when he smiles. He disapparates without another word.

As soon as he’s gone, Graves’ legs collapse under him. It’s a good half-an-hour before he manages to pull himself out of his panic attack by counting all the tiles on the floor. He crawls back to the darkness of his bedroom before the time limit hits, curls into a corner and tries to forget.

* * *

 

He emerges some time later. Grindelwald shouldn’t be long now, he thinks, although he has no real sense of time. He remembers the newspaper as he sits up in bed, and rubs tiredly at his eyes. Above him, the lights flicker slowly to life, bathing the room in a soft glow.

Grindelwald hasn’t lied: there is indeed an edition of the New York Ghost sat on the low table in the middle of the room. Graves takes it with hesitance, almost afraid. He stares at the headlines long enough for the newspaper to combust between his hands.

The world outside. Moving and evolving and living, while Graves is stuck there in a state close to comatose. For a minute he feels like tearing the paper in half and ripping all of it to pieces before he goes back to sleep. But he lacks the energy to.

Instead he tries to think rationally. He asked for this. He needs to know what’s happening outside, although he cannot change it. The attacks Grindelwald spoke of _—_ he needs to know about them. He needs to see if there’s anything he can do, for his people, for the city, even trapped as he is. Maybe Grindelwald will listen to him if he has some good ideas.

He feels more awake, now that he’s found an actual purpose for reading this newspaper. He opens it and starts.

* * *

 

“It’s an Obscurial.”

Grindelwald presses a kiss to his lips, and Graves doesn’t even try to duck away this time. He'll endure it if it means Grindelwald will listen to him. His mind is alight, buzzing with ideas and theories that not even Grindelwald’s touch can silence. He knows what's causing the attacks in New York. He's sure of it.

Grindelwald takes off his scarf and gives it to Graves, followed by his coat. His face shifts into his own as he walks to the living-room, Graves following behind him like an obedient puppy. He places Grindelwald’s coat and scarf on a chair, twisting his hands nervously as Grindelwald sits on the sofa and summons a glass of scotch to himself.

Gellert pats his thigh, gesturing for Graves to come closer. “Come sit on my lap, darling. What’s all this about? You’re all flustered.”

Graves makes a face. He'd found no clothes to cover himself with. Ever since that morning he’d stayed half naked, his lower half exposed _—_ something Grindelwald apparently intended to take great advantage of, now that he had Graves at his mercy, and that his little darling had promised him to be _obedient_.

He doesn't have much choice. Percival complies and tries not to think about it.

 _Focus on the case_ , _only on the case—not on Grindelwald’s hands fucking slipping underneath your shirt. Fuck, he’s so cold._

“I read the paper. The disturbances in the city, the crazy disappearances in the subway. It’s the work of an _—_ an obscurial, I’m sure of it.”

Grindelwald tucks him against his chest, pressing a kiss to Graves’ sensitive earlobe. It makes him shiver. He can’t help it.

“It has to be a child,” he rambles on. “He or she is no older than ten. Perhaps an orphan? I know there hasn’t been an obscurial in years and this might seem crazy but _—_ ah...”

Grindelwald smiles at him, as though his wandering hands hadn’t made it all the way to Graves’ backside. He gropes it, fingers digging into the soft skin of his ass.

“I think the Second Salemers church might a good _—_ oh, _oh_ , you _—_ jesus _fuck_ ,” Graves chokes, hiding his face in Grindelwald’s shoulder when the man penetrates him with a single, slick finger. Grindelwald slowly massages his insides, and the sensation is so fucking foreign to him, but not bad. The finger slips out and returns back to softly stroking and teasing the sensitive pucker outside, and Graves shudders bodily.

He wants to say no very, _very_ badly, but he doesn’t know what will happen if he does. Grindelwald is smirking, clearly having the time of his life while Graves goes red in the face, his whole body growing hot, speech escaping him.

No one’s ever touched him there before. Holy fuck. He’s going to die.

“Keep talking,” Grindelwald says into his hair. “I had not considered the possibility that it might be an obscurial, darling. Tell me all about it. You got all that from a newspaper?”

“I _—_ I _—_ _yeah..._ But there hasn’t been one for centuries, at least not in America. _Fuck_.”

Grindelwald pensively opens the buttons of Graves’ shirt. His finger is back inside Graves, curling and stroking. Sometimes he edges something that makes Graves’ spine melt and his toes curl, but if he tries to focus then the pleasure is _—_ bearable. Graves does his best to concentrate on his words and not on how Grindelwald’s playing with his body, nor with how his body is inevitably responding. He promised he’d be good, so he’s going to stay there and be good instead of bolt, and it has nothing to do with the pleasure pulsing through his body and everything to do with the case. Right.

At least he can take comfort in the fact that if he hadn’t argued against the use of Grindelwald’s little spell, he’d probably already be impaled on Grindelwald’s cock right about now at the rate things were progressing.

The thought makes him clench involuntarily. He can't control his own body _—_ his thighs are shaking, and his tongue has gotten loose. He curses the man pleasuring him with all he's got as Grindelwald massages that fucking magic spot within him that sends bolts of molten heat through his body.

In a display of unsuspected strength, Grindelwald flips their positions until Graves is lying beneath him on the sofa. He curls a hand around Percival's throat while the other works in a steady, sure rhythm to bring his point home. The sheer dominance expressed in those gestures makes Graves go hot all over. Shit. He _likes_ this. He's gonna lose his fucking mind if this keeps going. It’s not one but two fingers within him now, pressing and rubbing against that spot that makes him cry out and swear no matter how much he tries not to.

“Fuck you,” he moans, “Oh _God_ , oh _fuck…”_

“Keep talking, darling,” Grindelwald insists breathlessly. “I’m listening. God, look at you. So gorgeous, you’re so good for me, you’re taking it so well, hmm?”

Graves’ legs are spread open, as far as they can go. He makes a move to touch his cock but Grindelwald reprimands him. He feels like crying. He feels like begging. He's leaking precome steadily and he’s never been more ashamed of himself but he just _—_ can’t think rationally, not with Grindelwald finger-fucking him like he is.

He tries to talk, though. He tries to obey, when Grindelwald slows down just a bit. His hips roll, trying to chase the sensation; he’s close. He’s so very close, he fucking needs to come, why is Grindelwald _stopping_.

“The obscurial?”

“A child,” Graves gasps out. “It's a child, I know it is, please, fuck, please touch me. Yes. God, yes.”

“There are hundreds of children in New York,” Grindelwald muses. He closes his hand around Graves’ cock and starts stroking him, hard and fast. “How does that feel, darling?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Graves sobs. “Yes, yes, Gellert. God. Yes. Please.”

“Please what, darling?”

“I'm gonna come, please, fucking please, let me come,” Graves cries.

* * *

 

“How shameful,” Grindelwald says later as he wipes his fingers free of Graves’ come. “To choose your own pleasure over the safety of your city. How can I be expected to understand anything you say when you're begging to be fucked? I am so proud of you, darling. You're learning.”

Graves is lying on the sofa, a hand covering his face and the other resting on his belly. He had never come that hard before. He hadn’t even known it was possible to come that hard.

“You knew it was an obscurial,” he says, accusing.

“I suspected it.”

“Of course you did,” Graves replies tiredly. “Jesus Christ. I spent all fucking day over this newspaper waiting until I could tell this to you.”

“Language, darling.”

“I hate you,” Graves says, forgetting for a moment to filter his words. He tenses, looking at Grindelwald with wide eyes, but the man doesn’t seem to react.

Probably too fucking smug about driving Graves out of his mind while he rambled on about information Grindelwald already knew. Fucking bastard.

It had felt so good too. That fucking _bastard._

“You didn’t use a spell, did you?”

“No, Percival,” Grindelwald says. “That slut back there was all you.”

“Fuck me,” Percival mutters, feeling the tears come again. “I’m so fucked. I’m so fucked up.”

Grindelwald sits next to him on the sofa. “You’re not, darling. The way you reacted was perfect. I loved it.”

“I don’t care.”

“But you do.”

He does. He is happy he pleased Grindelwald. He is less happy about… everything else. God. If he can’t even control his own body, how can he be expected to overcome Grindelwald?

Perhaps it’d be better if he just… let go. Like he did when Grindelwald had him under a spell. He needn’t think. He needn’t care. He just had to feel, and Grindelwald made him feel good. It was much easier.

“I have a request, Gellert.”

“Again?”

“That was our deal.”

Gellert hums. “I thought we were past that.”

“Like hell we are.” Graves sits upright quickly, his eyes brimming with renewed fire. “I want to write a letter.”

The idea displeases Grindelwald _—_ Graves can see it immediately. He stiffens, eyes narrowing. “A letter? To whom would you want to write?”

“Theseus Scamander.”

Grindelwald curls a hand around Graves’ ankle, possessive. “The British director of Magical Security? No.”

“Please. We can compromise. I’ll do anything you want.”

“I want you to tell me why you think writing to _Theseus Scamander_ is a good idea. Do you think he is going to notice, where everyone else has failed? Do you think he is going to come and rescue you?” Grindelwald’s voice is sharp, cold as German frost and Graves can’t help but flinch and curl in on himself in an attempt to appease him.

Grindelwald’s right, it won’t change anything about his situation, but he just needs something to do. He needs to write to Theseus to remind himself that there’s still a life outside this prison he’s stuck in. He needs it to stay sane.

“I’ll let you do anything you want to me. I need this. Please.”

Grindelwald’s fingernails dig into his skin, his lips pulled down in displeasure. “I neither understand nor like your request, Percival.”

“Please,” Graves says softly. He reaches out to take Grindelwald’s hand and strokes it with his thumbs. “I’m not trying to leave you, Gellert. It’s just a letter.”

“You will not send anything without my reading it first.”

Graves nods his head in agreement.

“And you will comply to whatever I ask of you in return.”

“Yes, sir,” Graves says, sealing his fate.

Grindelwald brings Percival’s hand to his lips. Instead of kissing it, he grabs Percival’s left wrist and bites his ring finger, grinding his teeth against the skin until he draws blood near the knuckle. Percival yelps at the burning pain and tries to snatch his hand back but Grindelwald only bites harder and he’s forced to accept it.

A bloody wedding ring.

Grindelwald heals his hand when he’s done and repeats, “I shall read the letter before you send it. Be careful, Percival. Do not disappoint me.”

Graves cradles his injured hand against his chest and lets his long hair fall over his face to hide it. “No, sir.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Graves leaves the sofa and scrambles to hurry to his bedroom before Grindelwald changes his mind.

He feels exhilarated.

He'd done it. He'd submitted to Grindelwald and gained something in return.

He will write to Theseus. He will not let that chance slip through his fingers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, because I reaaaaally enjoyed writing it XD 
> 
> This has not been betaed so if you see anything fucky, do tell me <3 I hope you enjoyed it !


	6. In plain sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello !!!! i'm!!! excited !!!!! 
> 
> not too many chapter left to this fic - im thinking 2 or 3 at the most ! we're nearing the end ! 
> 
> enjoy ! <3

“Good morning, Mr. Scamander, sir!”

“Good morning, Johnson,” Theseus replies distractedly. He holds a cup of coffee in one hand, and a stack of important files in the other - which his secretary greeted him with. The door to his office slides open as he approaches it, recognizing his magical signature. Theseus finishes his drink in three swallows, grimacing at the taste, and throws the cup away, letting the bin scuttle forward eagerly to swallow it. It burps.

With a tired sigh, Theseus drops the pile of files on his desk and starts sifting through it.

There's a few unopened letters, and he’s thinking he'll start with those. He trusts his secretary, Mrs. Clark, to take care of all the unimportant mail : letters from fans, his mother asking him when he’s finally going to marry, that sort of thing. She knows how to respond, and he knows she’ll come through sometime later in his office to get him to sign it all.

The others, the ones he has to read and personally reply to, are mostly of a political nature. This morning, for example, it’s the Minister of Magic asking to meet him to review the changes he intends to make in the auror department. There’s a letter from the Southern African President confirming his presence to the International Confederation of Wizards planned the next Wednesday, and finally… Rich, cream-colored paper and black ink. A family emblem sealed in crimson red, and a writing he knows all too well.

“Percival Graves?” He muses aloud, surprised.

While it is true that his long time friend hadn’t replied to his last letter, Theseus had thought nothing of it. It wasn’t uncommon. They were busy men that led busy lives, and replying to a friendly letter could easily slip through their mind. So receiving mail from him after all this time is a nice surprise. Though, Theseus ponders, Percival usually sends his letters straight to Theseus’ home when he writes, instead of the Ministry, where it could easily be intercepted.

Brows knitted in a frown, Theseus cracks the seal open and unrolls the parchment. The letter is short and concise. Percival’s signature is a familiar, dramatic-looking flourish at the end. His _“g’s”_ are angled to the right, and his capitals still ridiculously high. So far, it looks very much like it was written by Percival’s very hand, which eases Theseus’ mind a fraction.

 

 

 

 

> _Dear Theseus,_
> 
> _How are you doing, my friend? I found your last letter, all but forgotten, in the drawer of my office desk, which made me realize I’d never gotten around to replying to you. I hope you’ll forgive me. With everything that’s going on - the series of attacks in New York, I’m sure you read about them in the papers - I feel like I’ve been slowly, but surely, going mad._
> 
> _I wish you were here, Theseus. At least we could get piss drunk just like the old days and forget everything for a little while._
> 
> _Seraphina’s hounding my ass about the upcoming re-elections - as though anyone else stood a chance against her. She’s done very well for the past four years; the MACUSA’s never been so powerful. I’d be lying if I said her ruthlessness didn’t scare me sometimes. (Don’t tell her I said that, T. She’d never let me live it down.)_
> 
> _I hope your brother, Newt, is doing well, and your parents as well._
> 
> _Yours truly,_  
>  _Percival Graves,_  
>  _Auror_  
>  _Director of Magical Security_  
>  _Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

Theseus folds the letter.

There’s nothing _wrong_ with it. He can see it was written quickly, no doubt in between two meetings after Percival found Theseus’ old missive in his desk like he claimed. There’s globs of ink here and there. Some letters have a vague, wiggly shape, almost indiscernible among the perfectly neat ones - as though Percival’s hand had been trembling.

Theseus reads the letter twice more. It’s mundane. It’s polite. It’s _boring._ It feels like it’s lacking something. Theseus can’t put his finger on what, but he can’t ignore the nagging feeling at the back of his mind that says there’s something more at play here. Something he cannot see. And an auror of his age and experience cannot ignore such instincts.

 _I hope you’ll forgive me._  
_I wish you were here, Theseus._  
_I feel like I’ve been slowly, but surely, going mad._

He reads it again.

 _Grindelwald’s driving me mad,_ Percival had said to Theseus the last time they saw each other. That was seven months ago. The two of them had gotten a drink, finding solace in each other after a trying international meeting between the US, the UK, and Germany’s representatives regarding Grindelwald’s rise in Europe. _Fucker wants to change the world.  As though we hadn’t had enough with one fucking war already. I hate his bloody guts._

 _We’ll catch him_ , Theseus had said, edging closer to him. _We will. He’s toast, Percy, I promise you that. We’ve got a serious lead on him already. We’ll get the bastard._

Percival had snorted into his drink, disbelieving, and they’d moved on to other, lighter subjects.

Could it be…?

No. This is just a coincidence.

Could Grindelwald be related to the attacks in New York? Is Percival trying to send him a message?

Impossible. Why would he not speak clearly? Why not use one of the codes he and Theseus established during the war if he was so afraid the letter got into the wrong hands? There is no hidden message here.

Nonetheless - should he go to New York to reassure himself? Or would he be made for a fool, thinking Percival sent him a secret message hidden in such a short, obnoxious letter?

He can’t just leave like this. It’d be too dangerous, especially in the far-fetched chance that Percival is indeed in danger. He needs to tread carefully, and the International Confederation of Wizards gives him the perfect opportunity. The meeting is held at MACUSA. Theseus would ask the Prime Minister, when he next saw him, for the permission to accompany him overseas, for protection. Minister Gilles wouldn’t refuse - the man was on edge, and everyday that Grindelwald didn’t get caught and put behind bars made him more paranoid. He was convinced that, as one of the leaders of wizarding world, Grindelwald was personally after his hide. He wouldn’t refuse Theseus’ much reassuring company.

Now all he had to do was wait, and pray that he was wrong, and that Percival was alright.

* * *

 

He was going to die.

No, scratch that. He was going to _kill_ Gellert Grindelwald, and then die. Yes. Much better plan. Ten out of ten. He was going to kill Grindelwald _by_ hitting him _with_ the dildo the other man was currently using to fuck him.

How he could possibly know the absolute perfect pace to drive Percival out of his mind, he had no idea - but it was bloody working. The toy just kept _hammering_ that spot inside him, turning Percival into a fucking mess. He felt hot all over, and kept drooling around the gag in his mouth. His hands uselessly gripped the bed sheets as he tried to hold on through the waves of deep, relentless pleasure.

“That’s it,” Grindelwald murmurs behind him, “That’s it, doll. Take it... “

Graves makes an undignified noise, his thighs shaking as the pleasure threatens to crest.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Jesus, no, that’s the last thing he wants - he’s so fucking close. But no matter how close he gets he can’t come. That’s driving him mad. All he can do is whine and take it, hoping Grindelwald understands his wordless plea. The other man pinches his thigh in response and fucks him faster with the wooden toy.

“You brought this upon yourself, darling,” Gellert says with malice. Graves can barely hear him, too busy getting his brains fucked out, but he struggles to listen and wills his lust-addled brain to _understand_. It could be important. “You agreed to our little deal. Agreed to let me give you pleasure in exchange for that letter. I won’t be satisfied until you beg me for it.”

“Oh. Oh, oh, _god -_ don’t,” Graves sobs brokenly.

“I can leave that toy inside you all day. You won’t get to come until you’ve learned to ask nicely. You did so well last time, what’s holding you back?”

Percival’s whole body is on fire, his face so red he has to hide himself in the crook of his elbow. Grindelwald laughs.

“I do enjoy the sight of you like this darling, all desperate and wet for me. Do you want me to fuck you?”

“No,” Graves whimpers. “No.”

“But you like _this,_ ” he says, grinding the dildo against Graves’ prostate for emphasis.

“Shit! Oh _fuck_. Yeah, yeah, thank you...”  

“You whore,” Grindelwald huffs. “You cock-hungry whore. I bet you’d love to have the real thing inside you, wouldn’t you? You’re so eager to get fucked. It’s disgusting.”

The next thing Graves knows the dildo inside him vanishes, and he feels terribly empty and lost. There’s the sound of a belt buckle, strong hands gripping his hips tightly. Percival barely has time to realize what it all means before Grindelwald slides inside him in one smooth thrust, Percival’s body opening up easily to take his cock.  

He has no time to adjust, no means to comprehend what is happening. Percival gives his most instinctive reactions, little breathy moans and gasps as he gets fucked, hard, for the first time in his life.

“That’s much better,” Grindelwald pants above him.

Graves can’t speak. He can’t think. He is on his hands and knees, his body rolling with each of the man’s powerful thrusts. He… he _likes_ it. He feels so full and god, it feels so good...

“Wouldn’t you agree, darling? Look how hard you are, getting what you asked for.” Grindelwald reaches around Percival’s waist to stroke his small cock for emphasis, in time with his thrusts. Percival’s eyes roll back into his head and his mind whites out.

His orgasm is a shock, his entire body seizing up, his hole clenching hard on Grindelwald’s cock. He doesn’t know how long it goes on. Grindelwald fucks him through it, though more gently. Percival moans feverishly as the ecstasy ebbs away, his body going completely lax and loose-limbed. He is slack-jawed, struck dumb, plainly satisfied.

Grindelwald comes soon after, holding on Percival tightly as he groans. Percival lets himself be held, the other man’s weight above him pressing him into the bed. He goes wide-eyed when he feels the warm, alien feeling of Gellert’s come inside him.

He lets himself take comfort in the man’s arms. Gellert hugs him and strokes his hair and kisses his forehead and calls him sweet words like darling, beautiful, my love. He praises him and Percival falls asleep, lulled by the sound of his deep, gravelly voice.

* * *

 

He thinks that he knows he did not want any of this. The thought is skittish, but he tries to cling to it. No matter what Grindelwald says, no matter how he makes him feel - Percival never asked for any of this. He just didn’t have a choice. Right?

Graves tries to make the best of their little game. It’s the only way he can survive. If he loses himself along the way, then… surely he’s not to blame?

He wonders if Theseus has received his letter by now. It doesn’t matter if he has : nothing will come out of it. Grindelwald had kept such a tight leash on him as he wrote it that Percival was utterly unable to get any sort of message across in writing. Theseus will not come.

Percival sighs and snuggles closer to Grindelwald.

He’ll be alright, even if Theseus doesn’t come. There’s already someone here to take care of him, after all. All he has to do is accept it.

* * *

 

The first thing Theseus does upon arriving at MACUSA is ask after Percival’s whereabouts. The woman he interrogates is a blonde gal, carrying a tray full of coffee cups.  She smiles and says that, lucky for him, she just got back from the auror department, and spotted the Director entering his office. Theseus nods and thanks her, walking in long strides to the nearest elevator.

He has half an hour before the confederation starts. Plenty of time to let Graves know he’s there.

The elevator ride is fairly quick. As is the norm, the auror bullpen is buzzing with activity, people swarming like flies in all directions, and yelling on top of each other. A few seem to recognize him and stand at attention while Theseus bypasses them, heading straight for Percival’s office door. Once standing in front of it, he... hesitates. Should he knock? Or just barge in unannounced? But Percival prevents him from making such a decision by slamming the door open, muttering under his breath as he looks down at a piece of paper held in his hands. He looks up, and Theseus is greeted by an expression of pure shock.

There’s no other word to describe it. It’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared to be masked by an easy smile, but Theseus saw it.

“Theseus! I didn’t know you were coming! Why didn’t you firecall?”

Theseus stares at him, taking the other man in. Percival is as immaculately dressed as ever, his expression happy and genuine. It turns to one of confusion when Theseus doesn’t immediately reply to his greeting, and he knits his brows in a frown, mouth pulled down.

“Theseus? Is everything alright?”

His voice is so familiar, so warm, invoking an old ache in Theseus’ chest. He had not realized how much he missed the other man until he stood right in front of him.

“I’m alright,” he says finally, reaching out to shake Percival’s hand. “I took advantage of today’s meeting to accompany the Minister here. Your letter had me concerned too.”

“Oh, god,” Percival mutters, shaking his head. “Don’t mention it. It’s like living in a bloody _nightmare_.” Theseus steps aside so Percival can lock the door of his office, and the man squeezes Theseus’ shoulder fondly as he leads them down the corridor.

“You mentioned attacks?” Theseus asks.

“Yeah. Five of them, just in the past two months. No one knows what the fuck is causing them.” Percival calls the elevator and turns his head to look at Theseus, a derisive smile on his face. “All we know is that it’s wreaking destruction across New York and then it just...” He snaps his fingers. “...Vanishes without a trace. My department is stretched thin, Thes. All my aurors, working overtime… Whatever it is, it’s fucking good at what it does. There’s no magical signature of any kind, absolutely no way to track them.” The frustration is evident in Percival’s voice, and Theseus can’t help but be sympathetic - this does sound like a nightmare of a case. “I’d wager that this is a beast, but Seraphina doesn’t agree with me. She’s been insufferable as of late.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Theseus says sincerely. He salutes the goblin as they enter the elevator. “I know how hard cracking tough cases can be. If there’s anything I can do while I’m here…”

“I’m afraid not,” Percival says. “I don’t believe we’d have the time. But I’m glad you came all the same. It feels good to see you again.”

Theseus smiles at him, reflecting the sentiment.

They reach the last floor, where the confederation is meant to take place. Percival murmurs an apology and goes to sit by the President’s side, while Theseus is left to join the Minister of Magic.

As the meeting starts, Theseus observes Percival.

Since he is only here as the Minister’s unofficial bodyguard, he doesn’t need to make any clever remarks about what’s being discussed, rather heatedly, around him - unless someone asks for it. Percival, however, is not exempt from raising his voice to give his opinion on a few subject matters. It’s expected of him.

He speaks clearly, firmly, projecting an air of quiet confidence that demands respect. What he says is just, and well thought-out. His sentences are concise, straight to the point. He deflects the critics accusing him of being unable to stop the attacks all over New York with apparent good humor, but a cold gaze that makes Theseus shiver and want to look away. He is every inch the man Theseus has come to know and admire, from the steel in his voice, to the way he starts bouncing his leg nervously when he thinks no one is looking. And the more time passes, the more Theseus ponders why he felt the need to come all this way to ensure Percival’s well-being.

Clearly, the man is alright. Overworked, perhaps; exhausted, his blood no doubt made up more of coffee than red cells as this point - but he’s alright. Theseus doesn’t know why he ever worried.

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that gif gives you an idea of how Theseus might stare at fake!Percival. I thought it was perfect. 
> 
> comments and kudos are very appreciated but never required !  
> i hope you're enjoying the story !  
> as usual, a big thank you to Qed221b for betaing my work <3 this chapter was, as you may have noticed, a bit shorter than usual, and that is because im gonna need a bit of time to figure out how I want the ending to go - it promises to be a bit of a challenge to write. but i'm hella pumped to write for this fic, people. im gonna be sad when it's done, it's so much fun.
> 
> thank you for reading ! <3


	7. An evening with Mr. Graves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theseus buddy come on

The ICW ends on a series of promises. The United States, represented by President Picquery and Director of Magical Security Percival Graves, propose new security measures : controls will be tightened at the borders, and new aurors will be recruited among the american wizarding population. The US encourages each country to do the same. Britain demands that - as a last resort - they have permission to ask for the Muggle government's help in the fight, should war break out. The proposal is reluctantly agreed upon after a chorus of deliberations. Finally, each country promises to release an APB out on Grindelwald and his known followers, calling for the public’s help to catch them.

It doesn’t seem like much, but getting each nation to agree on something is nigh impossible. In short, they all promise to do better to get rid of the threat Grindelwald represents as soon as possible. Whether or not these actions will actually prove to be efficient remains to be seen, but for now - it will have to be enough.

After a day of debate, the meeting comes to an end. The next one will take place in London, two months from now. As members of the ICW starts to leave the room, all chatting amiably, Theseus sees Percival being called to President Picquery’s side. She is with a third, blond man who he recognizes as the Canadian Prime Minister. Theseus is reluctant to interrupt their conversation, but the British delegation is meant to leave tomorrow. This might be his last chance to arange a private meeting with Percival. He just hopes the other man isn’t too busy to accept. He doesn’t quite feel like he has gotten what he came here for - that is, something to quell the feeling of wrongness he has been harbouring ever since he read that letter. He can’t help but feel like he has to linger a bit more.

Theseus quickly walks towards the group where Percival stands. The Canadian Prime Minister, Mr. Hale, stops in the middle of his sentence and watches him approach with interest.

“Gentlemen. Madam,” Theseus says with a respectful nod. “I’m afraid I must borrow Mr. Graves here for a second.”

Percival looks at him, amused. “You must, huh? Alright. Very well! Mr. Hale, Madam President - I’ll get back to you shortly once I hear what Mr. Scamander has to say.”

The President dismisses them with a graceful wave of her hand. Percival follows Theseus to a more secluded corner of the room, where they can be unheard. His arms are crossed over his chest.  

“That was certainly an interesting conference,” Theseus starts.

“Yeah?” Percival grimaces. “Felt like all they did was insult me at one point. They’re all like a bunch of petulant school children playing at being politicians. What the fuck do they think I do all day? Drink gigglewater with my aurors in the office while an Obscurial roams free?!” Percival shakes his head in thorough annoyance, before his eyes widen and he looks up at Theseus. “Oh, crap.”

Theseus’ mouth is hanging open. The Director passes his hand through his hair in a tired, defeated gesture. “Fuck... Can we try to pretend you didn’t hear that? Guess I’m more tired than I thought.”

“An Obscurial?!” Theseus interjects, whispering furiously. “You mentioned a creature -- you think an Obscurial did this? Here? In America?!”  

Percival closes his eyes briefly. He bites his lips, seeming to hesitate for a second - torn between denying Theseus’ words and reaffirming them. But in the end he takes a deep breath, and says, “It’s my theory for now. I did try to share it with the President but she completely refused to think about the fact that I might be right. Because there hasn’t been an Obscurial in America in hundreds of years, Theseus! And if there is one… If word got out that - not only did we allow the birth of an Obscurial here but that this child is responsible for the attacks all over New York - that, in doing so, they damned well came close to exposing our existence to no-majs…” Percival sighs. “Merlin, Theseus. The - the political and public backlash of this would be _insane._ I don’t blame Picquery for trying hard to come up with other possibilities.”

“This is…” Theseus’ first response to Percival’s words is denial. Strong and firm. He is right - the consequences of this happening in America would be disastrous. Obscurials are the thing of legends, born from a time of terror that is supposed to be long past over. But Percival is very rarely wrong. That’s how he made it this far, going from being a simple Auror to specializing in Investigations to finally leading them. This is what he does, what he’s good at. If Percival sees an Obscurial where others see a beast, Theseus is inclined to believe him. Plus, his theory isn’t so far-fetched. There hasn’t been an Obscurial in America in hundreds of years, yes, but what about for the rest of the world? Americans rarely see past the end of their own noses. Theseus recalls a letter Newt sent him, barely two months ago, to which he’d paid little attention at the time. He’d read it quickly, preoccupied by other matters. But - he can picture the words clearly in his mind now - it told the fate of a little Sudanese girl, who Newt had tried to help, who’d been beaten and locked away for her magic. An Obscurial?  Improbable. But not impossible.

Theseus cannot, however, give a more solid opinion on the matter unless he has a look at the case files, or unless Percival decides to share more with him. “I think… I think maybe you could be right.” Theseus places a hand on Percival’s shoulder. “Listen, I know you have work to get to, places to be, but - I thought we could meet tonight? It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to talk to you, Percival. I miss that. And you always look like you could use a break.”

Percival takes Theseus’ hand off his shoulder. He looks oddly reluctant. “I don’t know how late I’ll be working.”

“Come on,” Theseus grins, putting his hands in his pockets. “For old time’s sake. I’ll tell you what I know about Obscurials. I think you’re onto something there, buddy.”

Percival seemingly struggles to come to a decision - which is so unlike him - before caving in. “Alright,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Alright! You’re right, I need to go out more. Let’s say, hm - eight at _The Witches’ Den_? It’s a place I overheard my aurors talking about. Never been myself, but it sounded great.” And finally, there’s a real smile on his face. Theseus grins back and claps him on the shoulder.

“Brilliant! I’ll let you go back to your President then. Don’t forget about me!”

“I won’t,” Percival promises in a murmur. He turns on his heels sharply and leaves, leaving Theseus feeling weirdly stranded.

Thinking nothing of it, he heads back to the Prime Minister’s side as well. He could definitely use a bit of rest after having had to listen to people rambling all day. They are waiting by the room’s entrance, and Theseus falls in line beside them as they leave the room. Silence reigns. The two other aurors accompanying them were not allowed inside the room for the ICW, and thus act as silent shadows. The Prime Minister seems deep in thoughts, no doubt plagued with worries, heightened after what they’ve heard and seen. He does not try to drag Theseus into a conversation, for which Theseus is grateful. He has his own preoccupations, now centered around a single man : Percival Graves.

He could not observe Percival during the entire confederation’s duration. His insight was demanded on particular matters, such as the Prime Minister asking for the Muggle’s help in case things went south. But what he did see of Percival, he admired; despite his evident exhaustion the man is still formidable. Theseus can see nothing wrong with him, but no matter how much he says that to himself the restlessness remains. He feels like there’s more than what he sees. Like he’s missing something, but he doesn’t know what. It’s extremely frustrating. He hopes that getting to see Percival in private will ease matters.

They’ve apparated to their hotel, the _Full Moon,_  the only one in all of New York managed by witches. Away from the center of town, it appears to the Muggle eye as an old, abandoned building - broken windows, friable bricks and vines slithering up its walls. However, once the wizards pass the magical barrier protecting them from the Muggle world, they suddenly stand in a great room filled with lights. The high ceiling above their heads is charmed to reflect an aurora borealis, its colorful ribbons raining down on floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The air is imbued with perfume and cologne. On a sofa to their left, two young wizards, clad in comfortable clothing (a simple dress shirt and slacks) are sharing thin cigarettes. Theseus can hear more sounds, coming from the dining room - the clinks of cutlery, ringing laughter and an ambient chatter. The atmosphere invites to contemplation, and rest. Theseus almost regrets needing to go out again, although he anticipates the prospect of dining with Percival. But he still has a couple of  hours ahead.

The three of them accompany the Prime Minister up the stairs to his room, where he retires for the night. Theseus’ room is right next door, while the other aurors, McKinnon and d'Agostino, stay a few doors away opposite them.

Theseus locks and wards the door behind him, and assuredly gets acquainted with his surroundings. His eye is drawn to a silver tray. It is placed on top of a wooden table facing the large bed, and above it is a painting representing a deer hunt. There is a plate of chocolates and a teapot on top of it; and to the side, a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and a matching tumbler of whiskey. It wouldn’t do to start drinking this early, but Theseus is sorely tempted.

He has time to reconvene and change for the evening.  He decides to start by writing a letter to Newt. In times of duress, Theseus always writes to his little brother. He doesn’t always send the letter, but the exercise helps him gather his thoughts and quiet his mind. When he does send it, he knows he can count on Newt to reply swiftly with interesting insight. His travels give him a broader point of view and a greater open-mindedness than most people have. On the matter of Graves, Theseus still has nothing else to go on but his gut feeling.  But it soothes him to know Newt would listen and not dismiss him as paranoid.

Theseus’ suitcase has been deposited on the bed. He gets rid of his coat and Trilby, placing them next to it. He unclasps the latches, and starts rummaging through to retrieve his quill (short in length, suited for travel, made from the plumage of a pheasant), a small bottle of ink, and parchment. He always keeps them neatly tucked away in the suitcase’s false bottom.

He pushes the silver tray aside and settles at the table to write. He doesn’t really know where to start.

> _Dear brother,_
> 
> _I am now in America, having volunteered to attend the latest International Confederation of Wizards._ Theseus pauses. _It wasn’t in my plans to come, but a few days before I got a letter from my old friend, Percival Graves, who you know is the Director of Magical Security at MACUSA. Now I know you’ve never met him, but I showed you pictures, and I’ve talked about him often._
> 
> _Newt. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe you’re right, and your elder brother has finally snapped under the pressure of work. Something felt off with that letter. I don’t know what yet, which is why I’ve decided to come here personally to investigate.  And wouldn’t you hear this : Percival’s told me that he thinks there is an Obscurial in New York. The city’s been plagued by a series of unexplained attacks, and he confessed that this was the theory he’s working with. I will be meeting him later tonight to discuss it further. I can’t help but feel like there’s something seriously wrong going on here. Percival seems okay, if extremely stressed out. He behaves a bit oddly as well. But then it’s been quite a while since I saw last, and maybe I’m wasting my time and there’s nothing to see._
> 
> _That’s all I needed to share with you, little brother. I do hope you’re alright. I should get back to London tomorrow by midday; please give me a visit sometime, will you?_
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Theseus S._

Theseus sets his quill down, and passes his hand through his hair. God, he needs a fag. He straightens up in his chair and stretches. A quick _Tempus_ indicates that it’s nearing seven o’clock, and that he ought to get ready. He decides a shower is in order, to wash away the grimness of the day.

-

Tucking his shirt into his tweed trousers, he thinks he should send that letter to Newt. If he is quick, then he has just enough time to pop by MACUSA again and owl it to his brother before meeting Percival. With that done, Theseus uses a tracking spell to find the dinner Percival mentioned. He finds it hidden in plain sight, much like the _Full Moon_ hotel, sandwiched between two inconspicuous muggle restaurants. There is a charm on the windows that prevents him from looking inside. Theseus shrugs, crosses the street, and goes in - the door opening magically to welcome him inside.

It’s only a quarter to eight. The Auror shucks his coat at the door and keeps it folded under his arm. Percival is nowhere in sight yet, but Theseus arrived early. It gives him time to admire the interior of the restaurant, designed to look like a cave. The ceiling is low, and by the low, magical orbs of green and blue lights hovering around Theseus can see the walls are textured, looking rough and bumpy as though shaped by nature instead of a human hand. In the center of the room is a single pillar, that seems to bear the weight of the entire ceiling. The effect is even more noticeable when Theseus passes by it.

He appreciates the unique ambiance of the speakeasy. It’s less dingy than Gnarklack’s place, where he also had the occasion of going to with Percival last time he came to the US. Here, everything is reminiscent of nature, from the shape of the walls to the colors of the light to the tables, seemingly sculpted from redwood, with their feet firmly grounded in the floor. There’s low chatter permeating the air, mingling with soft jazz music that contributes to the soothing atmosphere. Theseus is a bit in love with that place. He finds an empty table for two in a remote, far-end corner of the room and settles down there.

He has enough time for a quick smoke. He vaguely wishes he could quit, but he has no particular desire to. Reaching for the pack of cigarettes inside his inner vest pocket, he plucks one from the package and brings it to his lips, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. The first drag relaxes him, and he lazily blows smoke into the air as he sinks further into his chair.

If there’s one thing to be said, it’s that Percival has always been punctual. Theseus is about to light a second cigarette when he notices him. He rises up to greet Percival as he spots and joins him. The Director seems jittery, and Theseus believes an order for two strong drinks is needed. There’s a menu on the table; without looking at it, Theseus says aloud, “Two double-whiskeys, please!”

The drinks appear instantaneously on their table, and Theseus smiles. “That was quick. So, my friend. How are you doing?” he asks, motioning for Percival to sit down. “Cigarette?”

“Please,” Percival says gratefully.  Just like Theseus, he seems to unwind after the first drag. “Listen, I’m afraid I can’t stay long.” Percival shifts in his chair, but doesn’t take off his silk scarf or his heavy coat, both remaining firmly draped over his shoulders. “The President wants to see me later tonight. I don’t even know what time precisely, but I’m guessing I won’t get much sleep today either.” He smiles tiredly. “I’m not sure what she wants me for, precisely, but - you know. What woman wants…”

“Woman gets,” Theseus agrees, chuckling. He crushes the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and then vanishes the remains. “Especially when she is the President. Alright.” He holds up his hands. “I won’t beat around the bush then - you remember my brother, Newt?”

“The magizoologist?” Percival finally touches his drink, bringing the tumbler to his lips and grimacing as he swallows. “Fuck, this is strong. But it’s good.”  

Theseus grins. “Don’t drink too fast. I’m not dragging your arse home. But yeah, that Newt. Well I recall that not long ago he wrote me that he’d found an Obscurial in Sudan. At least I’m assuming she was one, but I think that’s what the letter said.”

Now he’s got Percival’s attention. The man watches him carefully, fingers toying with the rim of his glass. “What was your brother doing in Sudan?”

“What my brother does,” Theseus snorts. “Studying magical creatures. It doesn’t matter, look, the point is that there are still Obscurials out there. So you might be right!”

“And… What happened to the girl?”

“Ah.” Theseus frowns, thinking. “From what I remember he’d tried to save her, but he couldn’t. He tried to… separate the obscurus from her. But that’s not possible. I’m just saying this to tell you that you’re not just grasping at straws, not that I thought you were. If there’s an obscurial in Sudan, then yes, there could be one here, too. It’s sad to think about, but it could be true.”

“I see,” Percival says pensively. “I see. So she was a child, right? How did he even find her?”

“A little girl,” Theseus explains. “I don’t know how he found her. He might have just heard rumors. But from what he told me her parents thought there was something wrong with her. They’d locked her up. Beat her for doing magic.”

Percival’s eyes glint dangerously, and he curls his upper lip, revealing his teeth. “Fuckers.”

“They were terrified,” Theseus says quietly. “But that’s no excuse for beating a child.”

“We shouldn’t _have_ to live like this, Theseus,” Percival mutters bitterly, shaking his head. He downs the rest of his drink quickly and orders another. After a look at his watch, Percival seems to decides he is not in such a hurry after all, and divests himself of his coat. He tugs his scarf off his neck and places it, folded, upon the table, before leaning back once more against his chair, more at ease. He drums his fingers on the table, and repeats, “We shouldn’t have to live like this.”

“Meaning?” Theseus asks, raising his eyebrows.

 _“Scared,_ ” Percival says with an intense stare. “Scared of what the no-majs might do to us because of what they’ve done in the past. Times have changed. We ought to be stronger.” He leans forward, crossing his arms over the table. “If there is such a thing as an obscurial here in New York, it means that we failed one of our own too. It means that we are so scared of exposure that we failed to notice how deeply a magical child is suffering. I don’t understand how we could have failed that badly. That child, whoever they are, needs our help.” He purses his lips. “But you know as well as I do that since they exposed us so greatly to no-majs they risk a death sentence, no matter their age. The law… Rappaport’s Law is _shit,_ Theseus. If there was a greater understanding between no-majs and wizards, then maybe such a situation could have been avoided.”

“I know,” Theseus says. “I know it’s unfair. The problem here is that the law is so ridiculously severe. Wizards are supposed to stay hidden from muggles in Britain as well, but we can make exceptions. The muggle Prime Minister knows about us, because it’s a matter of national security. Should a muggle and a wizard fall in love, then the wizard is allowed to reveal their true nature to their beloved in the presence of a third party from the Ministry of Magic. But you don’t have that. And that kind of - of avoidance, of separation only fosters misunderstanding and fear.”

“Things need to change, Theseus.” Percival’s cheeks are flushed, but there’s a little smile floating on his lips, as though he was very happy with Theseus’ insight.

“You’ve upheld the law for so long,” Theseus says slowly. “What changed?”

Percival chuckles. “Even I can understand that there’s some good in Grindelwald’s ideas, even if his methods are flawed. But I do believe that the wizarding world as we know it needs a fundamental change.”

Theseus crosses his legs. “What if there’s a second salem? You know we wouldn’t survive. You’ve been in the war. You and I both know what kind of weapons muggles can make. Magic or not, we wouldn’t be able to survive them.”

“That’s why we must strike first, not wait in the dark for them to inevitably discover our existence. We have to stop hiding!” Percival slams his hand on the table for emphasis. “Of course no-majs would be afraid. They believe in science. In religion. Not in magic. We’d realign their entire world view. But eventually they’d have no choice but to accept us. Because we’re there. We exist in the same world as them. And it’s time to acknowledge that. Our kind is dying, Theseus. We need to do something before it’s too late.”

Theseus, a bit dazed by the intensity of his speech, says, “You’ve given this some thought.”

“How could I not?” Percival demands. “Grindelwald’s presense invites thought.”

“I suppose, yeah.” Theseus finishes his drink, and silence falls for a minute before he looks back up at his friend. “Careful, or I’ll actually start thinking you want to follow him.”

Percival just laughs.

“There was a time for you where not even the Bible was as sacred as the civil code. You’ve changed.”

“People often do,” Percival murmurs. “And you know I’ve never been an ardently religious man.” He shifts in his seat again, and Theseus catches a glimpse of something shiny in his waistcoat pocket.

“What are you going to do about the obscurial?”

“I don’t know,” Percival says with a little dejection “But we’ll have to be fast. I’d be surprised if Grindelwald isn’t aware that there might be an obscurial on American soil. We have to find them before he does. But how does one catch an Obscurus? How does one catch a child, among thousands in New York?”

“I don’t know,” Theseus parrots. “Can’t exactly put an APB out on this one, can you?”

“We could save this child if we get to them soon enough,” Percival says with a glint in his eyes. “We need all the help we can get. Perhaps... write to your brother? If there’s a way to stop us from killing that child, I want to know what it is. He could help.”  

“I suppose,” Theseus agrees. “But I don’t think he’s ready to handle another failure. Now let’s think.” Theseus points a finger at his friend. “If you were a child hiding a terrible, dark secret - what would you do?”

“Try to make myself as invisible as possible. You have a point - they might be hidden in plain sight. Though that doesn’t help us much…” He trails off, as if coming to a realization. “Hmm. One of my aurors, Tina, had a problem with the Second Salemers community in New York a few weeks ago. I had to demote her for her recklessness.” He pursues his lips in displeasure at the memory. “I don’t know what the fuck went wrong in her head - she attacked one of their members, in daylight, in plain view.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She wouldn’t exactly say. Something about their leader being vile.” The man is on his second cigarette, and huffs and puffs as he lights it, the magical flame protected in the hollow of his hands.” The Second Salemers are a small community of no-majs who we’ve been keeping an eye on. They’re led by a woman, Mary-Lou Barebone - she’s the one Tina attacked. The woman’s stuck in the middle ages, from what I heard. She is convinced wizards and witches do exist. The attacks have helped their cause as well - even for no-majs, consecutive gas explosions across the city is a tad bit suspicious.”

“And?” Theseus asks.

“And they might be what we’re looking for. They live in an old church nearby. That woman, Mary-Lou, gives food to orphans in the streets every night. Perhaps the one we’re looking for is among them. They might even be one of her kids. From what I know she adopted three. I’ve been thinking recently about paying them a visit but I haven’t had the time.”

Theseus nods his head. “Sounds like a good place as any to start. How long have you thinking about this?”

“Not much. I actually just remembered it.”

“Well,” Theseus says. Without further ado he gets up, smoothing the front of his pants. “What if we headed there right now? We can play good cop, bad cop, whatever.”

Percival has stopped moving with his cigarette halfway across his mouth, bewildered. “Theseus! I don’t have time! Or a warrant, for that matter.”

Theseus wrinkles his nose, a haughty expression on his face. “That shouldn’t stop you. Isn’t this kind of a matter of emergency? You want to make headway on this case or not? Why shouldn’t we just go over there and ask these children what they know?”

“It fucking goes against protocol!”

Theseus snorts in disbelief. “You’re the one who literally told me the law was bullshit barely five minutes ago.”

“I can't just go around interrogating random civilians!” Percival hisses. “What’s gotten into you?”

Theseus looks nonplussed. Percival is right, his behavior is more befitting of a junior auror eager to prove themselves than a man of his age and experience. But after days of inaction and stewing in his own worried thoughts, the promise of a case has Theseus nearly vibrating with anticipation. “It won’t take long. Come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You... are ridiculous,” Percival says in disbelief. But he gets up as well, still looking a tiny bit wrong-footed. The movement brings Theseus’ attention back to Percival’s torso, and the shiny object in his pocket, which is… jewelry? Percival follows his gaze, disconcerted, and laughs when he sees what has Theseus’ focus.

“What is it?”

Percival takes the object out of his pocket and holds it up for him. It turns out to be a long pendant. At the end of it dangles a symbol :  a stick and a circle enclosed by a triangle. It is quite rough looking and ugly, very far from the sort of jewelry Percival would usually wear.

“Evidence,” Percival admits, looking at the pendant with interest. “I found it during one of our most recent bust outs. A guy we have in custody finally spilled the beans. Gave us an address where those interested in Grindelwald’s ideologies in New York can meet up and chat. We went there when they didn’t expect us and we caught a few. This thing hung on the wall. I’m wondering if it means anything. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it somewhere, but I can’t figure out where exactly, so I’ve been researching and carrying it with me around in case I have a sudden revelation during the day. It’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Isn’t this the sort of task you should delegate to one of your aurors?” Theseus points out, peering closely at the pendant. Percival shrugs, and carefully tucks it back in his pocket.

“They’re all already doing overtime, but yeah, you’re right. It might be easier to get answers that way.”

“Did you actually forget you had a team at your back?” Theseus says, amused. “Look who’s getting old.”

“Shut up,” Percival retorts good-naturedly, smiling. “And let’s go. I’m gonna regret this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have yourselves a merry little Christmas my dudes <33 Many thanks for following this story ! I hope you liked this chapter and that you'll like what's to come - we're near the end ! <3 (also next chapter will have 100% more REAL Percival i promise u )


End file.
